


Missing Son of Beacon

by mrdcoolblue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Memory Loss, Modern Royalty, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Royal Derek Hale, Royal Stiles Stilinski, Stilinski Family Feels, The Hale Family, secret royalty, the memory loss happened in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrdcoolblue/pseuds/mrdcoolblue
Summary: Sensing Stiles’s obvious discomfort, Peter used one well manicured hand to open a file folder in front of him and gleefully asked, “Shall I read to you these anomalies?”“Please don’t,” Stiles begged.Peter ignored him and slid the papers closer to read them. “Stiles McCall. Eighteen years old. Resident of Beacon Hills. Supposedly arrested for—” He hesitated with a quirk of his mouth.“Possession,” Stiles groaned.Peter downright leered. “What was that, Mr. McCall?” He was enjoying this way too much.“Possession of sick abs,” Stiles finished, feeling miserable.. . .Beacon has three ruling families: the Martins, the Argents, and most importantly the Hales. No one really talks about the Stilinskis—who used to rule over them all—since Queen Claudia tragically died in a fire eight years ago and her only heir, Prince Mieczysław, went missing.Of course, royal drama and unsolved arson cases were far from Stiles’s mind when he arrived at school with his brother Scott and best friend Danny like it was just a normal day. That is, until representatives from the royal palace show up looking for something.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 100
Kudos: 753
Collections: WIP Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of WIP Big Bang. It's finally here!
> 
> Moodboards in this fic are the work of the wonderful [Purpleyin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/Purpleyin). Find them here on the Archive or on [Tumblr](https://purpleyin.tumblr.com/) if you love their work.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189357822@N05/50269101352/in/dateposted/)

Just like most nights, Stiles dreamed of his mother.

At least, he had always assumed she was his mother. He could never be sure, because all he ever saw were creamy white hands pulling him into a protective embrace. And sometimes he’d see kind, pink lips dotted by one single mole in the corner. He could never quite understand the words they formed, but he always felt safe and warm. He associated those hands and those lips with joy and stability. He had to have had a mother at some point, so why couldn’t this be her?

His dream mother stopped her silent dialogue, and her lips stilled into a sad line. She seemed almost wistful; was she already disappointed in him? Stiles tried to touch her, but she was just out of reach. And when he stepped forward, she seemed to back away. He stepped again, and again, and she was always just out of reach, that beautiful mouth turning to a sad frown.

“I’m right here,” he tried to call out, but the words were choked in his throat. Why would he say that? She could clearly see him right in front of her.

Only now, she was much further away, her mouth twisted into deep lines of unhappiness.

“Mom!” Stiles wanted to cry, but no sound carried. All he could hear was a high-pitched ringing and a soft deep roar.

“Mom!” he tried to call again.

She was now a silhouette quickly fading into a bright orange light. Smoke clung to her form, twisting the image of his mother into a tall dark shape, the dimensions not quite human. It was too hot now, and Stiles’s breaths were shallow and wheezing. He couldn’t breathe.

“Mom!” a child’s voice cried out.

Stiles woke first with a gasp and then with a groan when all at once he felt a pounding headache and a tongue that was all cottony and dry.

With another groan, he rolled over on his side and used one flopping arm to slap against his side table until he located his phone. Shit, when did sunlight feel like needles in his eyes? And were chirping birds always this shrill?

That’s what he got for having the brilliant idea of getting shit-faced with his brother and best friend on a school night. For all this trouble, they better feel as miserable as him.

Still moaning and groaning with every movement, Stiles managed to drag himself out of bed, dunk his head in a cold shower, and pull on some semblance of an outfit. He finally figured out why they never let teenagers drink. They made stupid decisions, like letting Danny blackmail his recently turned twenty-one-year-old sister into buying them booze. _You only turn eighteen once, Stiles and Scott. Might as well celebrate with a bang_. Yeah, a bang. Now he’s in danger of having his head fall clean off his shoulders at the mere mention of any loud bangs.

Holy crap, this was going to be a really long day.

As soon as he exited his bedroom, he ran into Melissa dressed in her hospital scrubs. She took one look at him and whistled. “Whoa, what happened to you, kiddo?”

He immediately straightened. “Nothing! The birthday celebrations just went a little late last night.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Uh huh, and did the celebrations involve underaged drinking?”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but the buzzing in his brain prevented him from coming up with his usual talented bulshitting, so he just closed it, defeated. “Any chance we can take a sick day for our troubles?”

“Not a chance,” she shot back. “You made your bed, and now you get to lie in it, reflecting on the principles of responsible drinking.”

Stiles groaned again, but Melissa just smiled and reached up to soothe his aching head.

“Just when I was getting used to having two teenagers, now I have two young adults,” she said. “Just promise me that you’ll make all the stupid decisions _in_ the house. No drunk driving. No emergency rooms.”

Stiles leaned into the feel of her cool hand against his pounding forehead. “I promise, Melissa.” Eight years of living with the McCalls, and he always called her Melissa. She was the only mother figure he had, but she was Scott’s mom first. And to him, “Mom” was always those white hands and kind lips that felt like safety.

Melissa’s hands were close to that feeling, as she used her fingers to comb through his messy bangs. Then, when her thumb brushed against the raised scar on his right temple, she pulled away with a sad smile, and Stiles’s queasy stomach roiled when he was reminded of his dream.

“I’ve got work,” she said gently. Then her face shifted back into her usual business mom expression. “You and Scott are going to school. You will both drink plenty of water. And you will come straight home, because you are both grounded this weekend. No video games, no Danny, and you’re cooking dinner and handling the dishes. I don’t care how you divide the work.”

Stiles groaned, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t see this coming.

“And wash that gunk off your fingers. Bye.” Then she was out the door.

Stiles opened his hands, and sure enough, his fingertips were stained with . . . was that ink? He remembered last night that Danny had a really stupid idea, but they didn’t actually. . . . No. No way.

Stiles entered the kitchen, where he found Scott drooping against the table like a wilting flower. Good, Stiles wasn’t the only one getting punished for their bad decisions last night.

They exchanged a sleepy version of their customary morning greeting, and Stiles noticed that Scott’s fingers were similarly stained. He really needed to talk to Danny about that.

Scott and Stiles decided that the best hangover breakfast would be coffee so black it was practically sludge and cold leftover birthday cake from the fridge. The “Scott and Stiles” was still visible in the frosting. Both grumbled over their weekend grounding, but they also knew that Melissa had let them off relatively easy. They both agreed, though, that the hangovers were probably punishment enough.

When they determined that they were likely to keep the coffee and cake down, they decided to finally drag themselves to school. Just as they exited the house, a car pulled into the driveway and gave a spirited honk. Stiles responded with a spirited middle finger, but he and Scott climbed inside all the same. 

“What the hell, Danny? Why aren’t you dead like we are?” Stiles complained.

“Because I stopped drinking hours earlier,” he crooned. “Also, hydration isn’t just a mth, you know.” Danny pulled out into the street and started driving toward the high school.

Scott thrust an ink-stained hand into the front seat. “What did you mark us with? This stuff won’t scrub off with soap.”

Danny grinned and waggled his own darkened fingertips. “Yeah, if you figure it out, let me know. Otherwise we might have to wait for it to fade after a few days.”

Stiles snorted, but he didn’t have it in him to give Danny a hard time.

By the time they reached the school, Stiles felt a little better. At least, having ridden with the windows down, he no longer felt like his head was about to spontaneously combust, and he could act like a normal human again. Maybe he was recovering after all, and they could leave last night’s drunken escapades in the past. Even Scott seemed to be perking up a little bit by the time they got to their lockers, so as he and Stiles waved goodbye to Danny before they separated for first period, Stiles was fairly confident they would at the very least survive econ with Finstock, despite the man’s unpredictable outbursts.

He even managed to find the energy to wink and joke with a few other students before the bell rang for class to start. Stiles and Scott weren’t popular by any means, but they were friends with Danny, were both on the lacrosse team, and people seemed to generally like them, even if they were never really up in their business.

When Stiles had joined the McCall household in 4th grade, there had of course been rumors circulating around the school, fueled by both teachers’ and parents’ imaginations. Some of the kinder rumors speculated that he was a foster kid or Scott’s twin accidentally separated at birth. But some of the nastier parents took a look at Stiles’s mole-dotted pasty complexion and declared that it was more likely he was the product of some fling with a mistress. 

When protestations that he didn’t know or what did it matter when he and Scott were now brothers didn’t seem to satisfy people’s curiosity, Stiles learned to deflect painful questions. He used his natural precociousness and mischievous predilections as distractions and earned himself a reputation, not as Scott’s adopted brother, but as a lovable rapscallion in his own right. Some of his middle school pranks were still talked about in hushed, reverent tones, and while he always took great pains to never get into any _real_ trouble, Scott and Danny were always raising some good-natured hell right alongside him. 

As much as he considered the McCalls his family, he never wanted to be a burden to Melissa, so he always made sure to keep his tomfoolery harmless, his regard to authority reasonably respectable, and his grades in impeccable condition.

Sitting as he was in Coach Finstock’s class, Stiles could almost forget the hangover as he bent over his notes. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that he was in anything other than peak performance. 

Of course, his stomach started to roil a little more when the admin for the principal’s office walked in during the middle of the lesson and whispered something in Coach’s ear. 

“McCall and, uh, McCall. Both of you are to immediately report to the principal’s office.”

Stiles and Scott exchanged worried glances before they gathered their things and followed the admin into the hall.

As they walked through the school, Scott jogged forward to confront the admin. “Is it Mom? Did something happen to her?”

Stiles’s stomach clenched. Could that be why they were pulled out of class?

The admin glanced at Scott’s and Stiles’s worried faces and tried to adopt a gentler expression. “Your mother’s probably fine. This isn’t about her.”

Scott seemed visibly relieved, but Stiles questioned, “Then why were we pulled out of class?”

The admin sobered up again. “There’s a representative from the palace, and he’s asked to speak with you.” By then, they arrived outside the principal’s office, where Danny was already waiting on the bench. “Please wait here, and you will be called in shortly.”

Stiles and Scott stood, staring numbly at where Danny sat.

“Hey guys,” Danny said awkwardly. “So, any chance they actually want to offer us a medal or something?”

Stiles huffed a short, bitter laugh, but before he could say anything, a door at the end of the hallway banged open, startling all three teens into silence.

The school counselor, Ms. Morrell, was walking furiously down the hall holding her cellphone to her ear. She passed Scott and Danny with barely a nod, but when she made eye contact with Stiles, her brow furrowed and the clack of her boots increased in tempo until she was practically running out of the school. Weird. 

Scott frowned and returned to their conversation. “It might still be something good, right?”

“Scott, it’s the palace,” Stiles said, back on his original trail of thought. “It’s the center of our government, maybe even a representative from Queen Talia herself.”

“Which means?” Scott prompted.

“That this guy could also represent the highest law enforcement in the land. If I had to guess, it’s probably not good.”

But Stiles had no clue what this could be about, and that was what really freaked him out. Sure, he and Scott, sometimes with Danny, would get into shenanigans every now and then. But usually it was just harmless mischief that very rarely involved the local authorities, let alone anything that would even be remotely on the radar of the royal palace. 

The only thing he could think of that’s changed was the party last night. Sure, he, Scott, and Danny had engaged in underaged drinking, but nobody got hurt. Teenagers did stupid shit like that all the time. It shouldn’t have needed to go any further than parental discipline. Which they were already on the hook for, thanks to Melissa. Why would the palace need to send a representative to the school? He doubted they were just going to stop at a verbal reprimand if they came all this way. But how did anyone even know that they did anything wrong? It just didn’t make sense.

Then, the door to the office opened, interrupting Stiles’s thoughts. The principal stepped out into the hallway, a grim expression on her face. She was followed by a man in a fitted suit. Likewise, his hair was arranged impeccably, and his facial hair trimmed into a barely there goatee. His icy blue eyes casually gazed at each of the teenage boys until he landed on Stiles, and his face broke into a sinister wolfish grin. “I think we’ll start with the one who goes by _Stiles_ McCall.” And he chuckled like he was in on some great cosmic joke.

Stiles took a steadying breath and slowly stood up. As he followed the man into the principal’s office—alone and without the principal, he couldn’t help but notice—he spared one quick glance back at Scott and Danny. Both of them tried to snap back encouraging smiles, but Stiles didn’t need to be a mind reader to pick up on their strained expressions and know that even they couldn’t find much hope in the situation.

When the door finally closed behind him with an audible click, a morbid voice in his brain said it sounded like the final nail in his coffin.

The man indicated Stiles to take the guest chair before seating himself behind the principal’s desk. He looked at home in a position of authority.

“Mr. McCall, I presume you know what this meeting is about?”

Stiles fidgeted in his seat. He didn't know whether to lie and play it cool or to confess to every naughty deed he’d done. Please don’t let this be about his internet search history. “I don’t even know who you are,” he answered honestly.

The man sat back and appraised him for a moment. His eyes were severe, but the corners of his mouth were curved up ever so slightly; it came across . . . predatory. He was handsome in a way that was better to admire from afar, because those shrewd eyes focused on him felt way too invasive and even downright creepy.

Finally had enough of the silence, the man answered, “You may refer to me simply as Peter. As you no doubt guessed—because all of your records reveal that you have a gifted if restless mind—I am a representative of the Hale royal family.”

Stiles swallowed. Definitely from the highest law in the land.

“I am here, _Mr. McCall_ , because last night, at about 2:00 a.m., there was a breach in the government’s criminal database. Really quite skillful, actually. And, upon investigation, it appears rather than scrubbing or altering existing records, we were quite surprised to see that there were three _new_ records added with no sanction from official law enforcement.”

Stiles barely managed to stifle a groan. No, they couldn’t have. Did Danny really take his joke seriously and hack into the government’s criminal database? The night before was still largely a blur, but now that he was thinking about it, he started to remember having a jolly time pressing Scott’s drunken fingers into an ink pad and making some crack about also scanning a mug shot into the computer. This was it. They definitely had them now.

Sensing Stiles’s obvious discomfort, Peter used one well manicured hand to open a file folder in front of him and gleefully asked, “Shall I read to you these anomalies?”

“Please don’t,” Stiles begged.

Peter ignored him and slid the papers closer to read them. “Stiles McCall. Eighteen years old. Resident of Beacon Hills. Supposedly arrested for—” He hesitated with a quirk of his mouth.

“Possession,” Stiles groaned.

Peter downright leered. “What was that, Mr. McCall?” He was enjoying this way too much.

“Possession of sick abs,” Stiles finished, feeling miserable.

“Right,” Peter replied. “Next we have Scott McCall. A relation, I presume?”

Stiles suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Why couldn’t the floor just swallow him up now?

“Let’s see. He was supposedly arrested for . . . misuse of big brown puppy dog eyes. Do I have that right?”

Stiles squirmed in his chair. “Look, we were drunk—”

“But that’s not all,” Peter interrupted. “Danny Mahealani, also eighteen and a resident of Beacon Hills, was supposedly arrested for . . . embezzling the country’s allotment of natural beauty.” He quirked an eyebrow.

Yeah, Danny was just that extra. Stiles remembered he had recommended that Danny’s fake rap sheet say he was arrested for killer good looks, but Danny had insisted that he wanted his to be a white collar crime. Now Stiles wished he could go back in time and smack those tequila bottles out of their hands. He couldn’t believe a representative from the freaking queen was interrogating him about this. And his head was now throbbing with a tension headache.

“Please, it was a stupid joke,” Stiles tried.

“Hacking into a highly secure government database is hardly a harmless prank,” Peter shot back. “It was incredibly impressive, but that really speaks to the seriousness of this transgression.”

Stiles felt he had to defend themselves somehow. “If it was so impressive, how did you find it so quickly?”

Peter ignored him.

Shit, he was obviously out for blood. Stiles needed to rein this in quick. “It was a stupid mistake, but nobody got hurt. You said so yourself that nothing else was messed with.”

“But that still doesn’t change the fact that three of you blatantly thumbed your noses at the police force, the government, maybe even the queen herself.”

Stiles was panicking. This Peter guy was obviously fishing to make an example out of them. He knew Danny still had some counts on his juvie record and couldn’t afford another arrest. And Scott was supposed to get into vet school. He couldn’t let his future be jeopardized, not after everything he and Melissa had done for him.

Before he thought it through, Stiles interrupted Peter’s rant to blurt out, “It was all me!”

Peter’s mouth snapped closed, and he regarded Stiles more intensely.

“It was my idea,” Stiles continued before the man could try to refute him. “We were all drunk last night. I easily did the whole thing without Scott and Danny’s knowledge, all by myself. It was me,” he finished firmly. He fixed Peter with a look that he hoped came across as confident and maybe even a little defiant. He refused to even entertain the notion that Peter could try to punish his brother and best friend for this. He was offering a full confession with full culpability.

Peter narrowed his eyes, but the question that next came out of his mouth took Stiles completely by surprise. “What can you tell me about the royal family, Stiles?”

Stiles blinked. “Uh, what?” Holy non sequiturs, Batman.

“Anything you know,” Peter said, loftily waving his hand. “Tell me about the royal family.”

Stiles stared at Peter. Where could he possibly be going with this? Was he going to try to charge Stiles’s false arrest records with treason? A judge would totally throw that case out immediately. At least, he hoped so.

Nevertheless, Stiles opened his mouth and said, “Well, the current ruler is Queen Talia Hale, of course. She lives and rules at the royal palace at the edge of town.”

At Peter’s pointed look, he continued. “She has three children, I think, the oldest of whom is Princess Laura, who is next in line.” He trailed off. He couldn’t remember the prince and other princess’ names. Melissa would definitely know and happily remind him. He thought he heard somewhere that Talia’s husband died before she ever took the throne.

Peter huffed impatiently, pulling Stiles from his thoughts. “Is it only the Hales you know? What about the other families?” He was obviously looking for Stiles to mention a specific piece of information. He only wished he knew what.

“There are technically three royal families,” Stiles recited dutifully from his government class. “The Hales, the Martins, and the Argents. They all live in the royal palace, because that place is huge. The Hales are the only ones who actually rule, and Princess Laura is technically next in line, but I guess they all have a shot at inheriting the throne.” He was starting to get really uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

“Anything else?” Peter asked.

“I’m sorry, I’m not really up on their exact family trees.”

“You’re missing one royal family.”

“I am?” Stiles was pretty sure that his class only covered three of note.

“What about the last queen and her king consort?” He looked Stiles dead in the eye, and it was really too much.

Queen Claudia and King Consort John. Stiles honestly hadn’t even thought about the Stilinskis because there were none left. “I heard there had been a tragedy years ago, but I really don’t know much about it. And what does that have to do with what we—I mean, I—did last night?”

“Indulge me, please. Surely you remember at least one personal tidbit about the last queen? Maybe something from the news coverage when she died?”

And while the conversation so far had been nowhere near a walk in the park, they were now officially towing the line to a topic Stiles really didn’t want to talk about.

“I’m sure I don’t know—”

“Anything at all,” Peter pushed. “She spoke on TV quite often. Maybe you saw something that left an impression.”

“I confessed fully, so I’d rather not—”

“I insist.”

And then the dam broke.

“I don’t know, okay?” Stiles said, staring intently at his lap. His face felt hot, and he refused to look back at Peter. “I don’t know if I ever saw the last queen on TV. I don’t have any memories from before eight years ago.” He squeezed his eyes shut and just prayed that Peter would drag him to jail already. 

He hated being reminded of his past because he had no past. Before Scott and Melissa, there was nothing. All he knew was that he just showed up one day with a head wound that eventually became a scar and a whole host of night terrors that would leave him shaking and crying several nights a week until he was thirteen. He didn’t have a past, so he was fine giving up his future if that meant Scott—who on his darkest days unwaveringly distracted him with video games and companionship, who unselfishly offered to share his birthday because Stiles didn’t even know when his was—wouldn’t have to sacrifice his own.

The room was silent for way too long, so Stiles braved a quick glance up. Peter was tapping on his phone, paused to read the reply, then looked up when there was a short single knock on the door. “Come in. Prompt as ever, Erica,” Peter said as a gorgeous blonde woman entered the room. She was dressed in the royal guard uniform and looked intimidating as hell.

“So what happens now?” Stiles asked shakily.

Peter regarded him with a cold smile. “Now, if you would be so kind, please come with us.”

Stiles swallowed. Peter’s words were polite, but that hardly sounded like a suggestion, so he got up on wobbly legs, trying to ready himself to face his doom. He thought of Scott, Danny, and Melissa to give him strength as he followed Peter out of the office, fully conscious of the guard at his back. 

“Stiles!” Scott and Danny leapt to their feet as soon as they emerged, both sporting worried expressions.

Stiles tried to assume a reassuring smile, but he was sure he failed. “Everything’s okay,” he started, but Peter was already walking self-assuredly toward the school entrance, and Stiles had no choice but to follow as the guard named Erica crowded him forward.

“I confessed to everything, because it was me and nobody else.” He prayed that they understood to keep their mouths shut and not say anything stupid.

“Stiles, no!” Scott shouted, but Danny, bless him, shushed him immediately with a single touch.

Scott’s shout had gotten the attention of a few nearby classrooms, and several students and teachers poked their heads out to see the commotion. By then, Erica had a firm grip on Stiles’s arm and was pulling him toward the exit, so he was forced to allow himself to be dragged forward. As he looked back, he saw Scott following, clear distress on his face.

“Scott,” Stiles called, and he was slightly embarrassed when his voice cracked with nerves. Erica was relentless in pulling him along, although she wasn’t hurting him. Even so, he struggled to call back to his brother. “Scott, tell Melissa that I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

People up and down the hall now were whispering at the sight of one of the royal guards dragging Stiles out of school.

“Stiles!” Scott yelled again, but Danny kept him back.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Stiles called just as Erica pushed open the double doors and plunged them both into the sunlight.

She kept her hand on his arm, but now that Stiles could no longer hear Scott’s distressed calls, he easily kept pace as she led him to a shiny black car with tinted windows.

Peter opened the door to the backseat and cheerfully urged him to climb on in. Stiles obliged him and scooted to the far side so Peter could get in after him. Erica sat herself in the front passenger seat. At a signal from Peter, “Let’s go, Matt,” the driver pulled away from the curb and through the school parking lot.

Stiles spared one last look at the school building. Students and teachers had their faces pressed against the windows to see what was going on. Ms. Morrell was jogging to her car.

As the school faded from sight, Stiles shivered and hoped that he would be able to see it again soon. He hoped that Scott wouldn’t try to do the heroic thing and turn himself in too.

And he hoped that, whatever Peter had planned, he would come out the other side of it okay.

. . .

The car ride was long, silent, and so, so awkward. Stiles did his best to keep from fidgeting, but he was such a mess of stressed nerves and ADHD that he couldn’t help tapping an erratic rhythm against his thigh. If someone didn’t say something soon, his head really might explode.

“So,” Stiles started, and Peter’s head snapped up from where he’d been tapping through his phone, “where are we going?” It sounded so lame, but he wasn’t kidding about his head exploding.

“To the royal palace, of course,” Peter replied.

“What? Not to jail?”

“Stiles, why would we take you to jail?” He regarded Stiles with that intense interest again, and Stiles suddenly realized that he hadn’t called him Mr. McCall in a while.

“But I hacked into a secure government database. You specifically came to the school to find the culprit, and I confessed, so. . . .”

Peter’s chuckle cut him off. “Maybe it was a bit much for me to assume that you’d put it all together before having all the information. Before I begin, though,” he held out his hand, “I need to hold onto your phone for a bit.” When Stiles hesitated, Peter continued. “You’ll get it back later. There are just some sensitive topics, and I have a confession of my own.”

Stiles chewed on his lip. That sounded so ominous, but when he looked into Peter’s eyes, there was genuine mirth there. He wasn’t being cruel, but he seemed shadily amused to be in on some joke that Stiles didn’t know.

Stiles figured he was already in deep, and if he had been sent to jail like he’d expected, they’d take away his phone anyway. So he hesitantly handed over his last lifeline to Peter, who made sure it was securely in his jacket pocket before continuing.

“Let me assure you, Stiles, that I don’t handle petty crimes. And I certainly don’t go picking up aspiring criminals who are in the middle of gym class.”

“It was econ,” Stiles retorted quietly, but Peter’s amused smile never wavered.

“Instead, as I mentioned earlier, I work at the royal palace. I guess you could call me a kind of fixer. I do what needs doing, especially the sensitive tasks that pertain to the royal families, my sister included.”

Stiles’s brows rose in surprise. “You’re a Hale,” he stammered.

There was that wolfish smile again. “Clever boy.”

Stiles’s breath caught as he regarded Peter—Peter Hale—with renewed interest. He remembered that the queen’s brother had a reputation in the kingdom. He rarely ever made it to the spotlight, but people speculated that he was the country’s spymaster or a cutthroat enforcer on behalf of the royal family. If Beacon was one of those countries where criminals and dissenters disappeared without a trace, Peter Hale was supposedly bloodthirsty enough to be in charge of that. Holy crap, Stiles was definitely going to die. Or worse, disappear into some dark hole forever.

His panic must have been clear on his face, because Peter leaned back to give Stiles some room. “Now, you can’t believe everything you read. I can assure you that I’m not here to hurt you.”

Stiles wasn’t sure he fully believed him, but so far nobody had threatened or hurt him. Sure, he was scared, but he got the feeling that this was a strange situation for everyone. Back at the school, Peter had quizzed him on what he knew of the royal families. That would kind of make sense if Peter’s specialty concerned sensitive matters related to the royals. But why direct this at him? In fact, there was something that was still bothering him.

“How did you discover the database breach?” Stiles asked.

Peter’s gaze was practically glowing, but he didn’t say anything, so Stiles continued.

“You had said the hacking was skillful, but it wasn’t even twelve hours before you were at the school looking for the culprit.” They may have been stupid and drunk when they planned the prank, but they still knew their stuff. No one was supposed to see their fake arrest records unless they were arrested for real or part of a crime in some distant future. And Danny’s juvie record wouldn’t have pinged anything because, as a minor, that record would be sealed away separately. Danny was less wasted than he and Scott were, and Danny was careful. There’s no way the government just happened to discover the breach so quickly.

Peter chuckled. “Mr. Mahealani’s hacking skills really are impressive.” Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but Peter silenced him with a raised hand. “I know you weren’t alone in your little criminal activity, but I don’t really care about that right now.”

Peter looked thoughtfully out the window to gaze at the changing landscape. “What do you know about the former crown prince, Mieczysław Stilinski?”

Stiles tried not to huff with frustration. Changing subjects again? But he obliged him. “Nothing. He died years ago, with Queen Claudia, before I can remember,” he added bitterly.

Peter kept staring out the window. He seemed to be looking at something far away. “There was a fire,” he said quietly, “in the Stilinskis’ wing of the palace. It was a shock to us all to lose our ruler so suddenly and tragically. Claudia was like the sun—lively, beautiful, and reliable. She treasured her only child more than anything in the world. And overnight they were gone. Eight years have passed, and none of us were the same after that.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say to that. He’d heard stories of the country in general being rocked. But he’d never thought about the fact that, if all the royal families lived together in the palace, then they might have been personally close as well.

“The truth is, Stiles,” Peter looked across to him, “we would never have picked up on the breach so quickly. But one of those new records’ fingerprints pinged an alert on another database. They were a match for a high-profile missing persons case from eight years ago.”

Stiles’s breath caught in his throat. He absentmindedly reached up to fiddle with the scar on his temple, but halfway there his hand froze in front of his face. He could still see the ink stains on his fingers, the damning evidence for something that sounded so insane that he must have misunderstood Peter’s words. Or he was having a stroke. That was totally possible; surely a stroke was more likely than—

“Your prints were a match for the missing Stilinski prince,” Peter said soberly.

Shit.

. . .

When Derek finished his morning workout, he was more than mildly irritated.

Derek flung the door to his personal locker open and took a little satisfaction when it slammed against the wall. Maybe he should take up a slightly destructive hobby, something like chopping wood or hurling axes at targets, to get rid of his extra angry energy, he thought as he liberally toweled the sweat from his face. There was only so much minor property destruction he could get away with before Cora stopped taking his excuses that they were just accidents and tattled on him to Laura, or worse, their mother.

Derek caught a glance at the wall clock and cursed. He was so, so late.

He shot off a threatening text to Boyd before he readied himself for a quick shower.

Boyd was his royal assistant. He kept track of his schedule, ensured Derek had everything he needed, and even served as a last resort security detail. They spent 80 percent of the day together, and since Boyd was always reliable, poised, and most importantly quiet, he was the perfect assistant. 

Except for today, because Boyd didn’t meet him for their morning workout. Derek famously got into the zone when he was exercising, and only Boyd had the magic touch to get him out on time. The two usually interacted more as friends than as royal and assistant, and Derek had come to rely on Boyd to pace him. When Boyd was finished, it meant it was time to get started on the day.

But that didn’t happen this morning.

With a fair amount of grumbling and scowling, Derek finished his shower and got dressed in his clothes for the day. He forewent his usual button down. His tardiness meant he had no time to press a shirt and slacks, so he opted instead for a henley, one of his nicest pairs of jeans, and decided to dress up the whole outfit with his designer leather boots. They had been a birthday present from Peter, who joked that he now had something from a real designer label, but Derek would never admit that he actually liked the way they fit on him. Whatever. Peter should be happy he made any sort of effort to look presentable.

Derek checked his phone—still no word from Boyd, was something wrong?—then walked out of the palace’s locker room to go looking for his wayward assistant. He better be laid up in bed with a severe cold if he couldn’t check in at least once.

Derek was so consumed by his angry fuming that it took several minutes before he realized there was more activity in the hallways than usual. Servants and staff were hurrying about, looking excited. And there was a buzzing energy in the air. Derek only saw the palace go into such a tizzy right before a major diplomatic visit, and he knew nothing of the kind had been scheduled. Boyd would have told him.

He was almost tempted to pull someone aside and question them about it, but that would have been inappropriate, and rude, as his mother would have said. Boyd was really supposed to keep him informed of important goings on. Where was he?

Derek was pulled out of his thoughts when a familiar glimpse of blonde curls were seen disappearing into a side room. Derek nonchalantly made his way toward that section of the hallway, looked both ways to make sure no one could see him, then slipped into that same room.

Inside was in his opinion the most beautiful woman in the palace. Even dressed in the leather jacket and gloves she usually wore when hunting off the palace grounds—and holy hell, were those leather pants?—the object of his affections looked immaculately put together.

Derek leaned in for a kiss, but Kate just ducked out of the way as if she hadn’t seen what he was going for. He tried to quell his brief flash of disappointment.

“Did you hear what happened?” Kate asked tightly.

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I just got out of my workout. Why? Is everything okay?”

Kate laughed bitterly. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the word, but someone has come forward claiming to be the lost Stilinski prince.” 

That would explain the frenzied state of the palace. This was monumental news. “But I thought he died with Queen Claudia in the fire.”

“Maybe he did. It makes you wonder, though. . . .” Kate chewed on her thumbnail, furrowed gaze staring angrily into space.

The silence was killing Derek. “Wonder what? You don’t think the claim is legitimate?”

Kate’s sharp gaze flashed quickly to his before it melted into something much more mild. “Oh I’m sure he’s a nice person.” And Derek was satisfied with that, but she continued. “But you have to admit that the timing is a little weird. Just as Princess Laura has secured her position with a husband—even if he is common by birth—who knows when they might announce their own bundle of joy to lock her in as the next queen. Then along comes this kid, who no one has seen or even been sure has been alive for eight years. All of a sudden the line of succession comes into question, doesn’t it?”

Derek’s mind was whirling a mile a minute. Now that she said it like that, he had to admit the timing was a little suspicious. If he was looking at this scenario in another country—or hell, it wouldn’t be out of place on a TV soap opera—he’d want to look into such such a claim. Laura deserved to be queen. She’d been training for the day she would eventually take the throne ever since their mother was crowned eight years ago. 

And who was this kid? Even if he really was Prince Mieczysław, what right did he have to waltz in now, so many years later? What right did he have to rule besides the coincidence of his birth?

“It’s all just too too,” Kate summed up with an arched eyebrow. 

When Derek found himself nodding along with her absentmindedly, she flashed a quick smile and patted his head.

“I have to get going,” she said, making her way to the door. “We should meet up later and discuss. And you know how much I like it when you wear the button down.” Derek grasped self-consciously at his henley as she slipped out with a quiet laugh.

He waited fifteen seconds so they wouldn’t be seen leaving together and then emerged from the room. He had to go see what Laura made of all this. Would she be okay?

Just as Derek rounded a corner, he almost collided straight into Boyd.

“Sir,” Boyd said, slipping into the formal address since they were out of the privacy of Derek’s suite.

“Where have you been?” Derek asked severely. His anger toward Boyd had cooled somewhat since new, much more serious information had caught his attention, but he was still slightly annoyed. “Have you heard what’s been happening?”

“That’s just the thing, sir. His Highness Duke Peter has requested your presence. Immediately. He said it was ‘a matter most delicate.’”

Derek swallowed. That sounded like Peter. If there really was a missing royal prince involved, he had no doubt that Peter had stuck his fingers somewhere in it. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Take me to him,” Derek replied, immediately falling into step with Boyd.

What did Peter need his help with right now? What could Derek possibly do about this fiasco?

. . .

When they arrived in front of his uncle’s office, Derek allowed Boyd to reach up and knock politely then wait for permission to enter. Instead of calling out for them to come in as usual, the door cracked open, and Peter poked his head out, still blocking the way in.

He at first gazed out suspiciously but immediately broke out into a, “Thank god it’s you,” and quickly ushered them inside. Derek barely cleared the threshold before Peter snapped the door closed. He was being strangely paranoid about who could see into his office.

As soon as Derek got a good look inside, he could see why. Sitting on one of the couches was a kid he only assumed was the supposed missing prince.

Although, with the rumpled hoodie, hunched posture, and bouncing knee that supported wringing hands, he looked more like a twitchy teenager than an actual royal, let alone a Stilinski.

The kid was pale, almost unnaturally so. And when Derek and Boyd entered the room, his eyes darted straight to them, and he shot up from the couch so fast, it looked like he half expected to be attacked right there in Peter’s office.

He took a shaky step toward them, but a gentle touch from Erica behind him had him stiffen and stop in his tracks. Jeez, Derek wasn’t sure if the kid was going to last the next ten minutes without a heart attack.

Peter, though, shot the kid one of his unnerving smiles as he ushered Derek to his private inner office. “Don’t worry, Stiles. We’ll only be a moment.” He signaled Boyd to wait out there before shutting himself and Derek inside.

As soon as he was certain they were finally alone, Derek started. “So the rumors going around the palace are true?”

Peter cursed and reached for a decanter of amber liquid and poured himself a glass. The man had a pretentious obsession with looking fancy, but Derek was one of the few people who knew that Peter only ever kept dyed sugar water in his personal stash (mostly because he snuck in for a drink when he was eleven). The man always insisted on the importance of keeping in control of one’s wits. “Should have figured I couldn’t keep word from spreading around here. Just pray the media doesn’t catch wind of this before we figure out what to do.”

“What _are_ we going to do?”

Peter took another gulp of his drink, and Derek resisted rolling his eyes at the theatrics. “I’m not sure yet. We have to play it delicately before this could destabilize the country. At the very least it throws the whole line of succession into the air.”

“So you think his claim is legitimate?” Derek furrowed his brows.

Peter laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure ‘claim’ is the word, but yes. I really think it’s him.”

“But how can you be sure?” Derek interjected. “It’s been eight years, and a lot has happened.”

“Derek, have you ever actually seen Prince Mieczysław in person?” Peter shot back with an arched eyebrow.

Derek huffed into silence. He knew it was a rhetorical question. Queen Claudia had always kept her private life close to the vest. Everyone knew that she married King Consort John, but when their son was born, they famously kept him from the prying eyes of the public and the media, which translated to him never leaving the Stilinski wing of the palace for the first few years of his life.

But Derek remembered seeing him once. Queen Claudia had held a formal ball for his fifth birthday and invited important cabinet members, a very few number of foreign dignitaries, and the other royalty of Beacon to the occasion. Derek was only about ten years old at the time, but he did remember thinking it was ridiculous that someone had dressed up a little five-year-old in a military-style suit and royal sash to display his status.

He remembered that the little crown prince had at first seemed cowed by so many strangers in the room and hid behind the queen’s skirts. But after a few minutes being held in the king consort’s arms, he had grown more bold and energetic.

That pale skin and those big brown eyes could have belonged to the nervous teenager in the other room. But did Mieczysław back then have that scattering of moles across his cheek? Were those five-year-old hands likely to grow into such long fingers and broad palms?

Derek thought silently, but Peter wasn’t done. “You’re right. A lot has happened in eight years, and most of it happened to that boy out there. Nothing changes the fact that eight years ago, we may have lost a queen, but he lost two loving parents, his home, and I suspect more besides.” 

He trailed off, working his glass between his fingers. “I need time to figure things out, because I’m less concerned with who next sits on the throne than I am with the fact that eight years have gone by with him living less than thirty miles away, and none of us knew he was even alive.”

Derek looked at his uncle in alarm. “So you think there’s something worth investigating?”

Peter growled lowly. “I don’t know. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s going on. I need to at least look into the family that was raising him. How could they possibly not know what they had?”

Derek stayed silent. This was all so much. Peter had about a dozen lines of inquiry going through his mind that Derek had never even considered. There was a reason that Peter was the fixer of the royal families. He’d had this job even before Derek’s mother was queen. If there was anything to find, Peter would sniff it out—one way or another.

“So what do you want me to do?” Derek asked quietly.

Peter gazed at him fondly. “I want you to keep an eye on him. He’s scared right now, and I have a thousand things to do to properly look into this without alerting anyone outside the palace.”

“So you want me to babysit?”

“I want you to show him around. Help him see the human side to what we do at the palace. Who knows, maybe something might trigger a memory in him. Erica will stay close by for protection. And get Boyd and whoever else to help.” He clapped Derek on the shoulder. “Think you can handle that?”

Derek wanted to grumble. He wanted to refuse, to say he would never be a part of this crazy scheme. But instead he gave a curt nod of agreement and followed his uncle back into the sitting room.

The kid was still standing where they left him, biting at one of his fingernails anxiously. If anything, he looked even more sickly and pale.

Boyd and Erica stood freshly at attention, but Peter breezed past them and addressed the kid. “Stiles, I would like to introduce you to my nephew, Derek.” Derek noted he didn’t use any titles in this introduction. “He’s going to keep you company for a while. Maybe give you a little tour.”

The teen’s nervous gaze flickered to Derek, and after a moment of wringing his hands, he seemed to realize he should do something. The kid, Stiles, stepped forward and held out a hand to shake. 

But as soon as he opened his mouth, all the remaining color in his face immediately rushed out. 

He heaved forward and couldn’t cover his mouth in time before he violently threw up. All over Derek’s good boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Would you believe this is the shortest chapter? This story is complete, so expect chapter updates every three days.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments or come say hi on [Tumblr](https://mrdcoolblue.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you, Purpleyin, for the moodboards! You can see more of their art here on the [Archive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin) and [Tumblr](https://purpleyin.tumblr.com/).

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189357822@N05/50268175983/in/photostream/)

Stiles was going to die. He was going to be executed or thrown into some dark and dank cell, and no one at home was going to know what happened to him. He was going to disappear forever, all because he threw up on the prince’s shoes. Not just any prince. A Hale. The only son of the queen.

They were currently crowded into a bathroom, trying to clean the worst of the vomit from the prince’s boots. At least, the silent black guy was helping the prince clean the boots. They were both wiping damp paper towels across the expensive-looking leather. The prince stood in his socks glaring the whole time, and the other guy worked with steady and sure hands. Thankfully the blonde guard decided not to crowd the bathroom further and stood just outside in the hallway.

Stiles, though, was a wreck. He kept buzzing around, trying to be helpful, offering paper towel after paper towel, and apologizing profusely. He could tell he was bugging the prince, but the grumpier he looked, the more nervous he felt, and the more he buzzed around looking for ways to be useful. It was a vicious cycle, and if he hadn’t just emptied himself of the coffee and cake he’d had for breakfast—which, okay, not the best idea on a hangover—he might have been in danger of throwing up again from sheer nerves.

“I’m so, so sorry. This never happens. Really, it doesn’t.”

“It’s fine,” the prince said through a deep sigh, eyes never leaving the shoe he was scrubbing.

“I’m not even sick. I was just so nervous, and I had been feeling queasy all day. I know it was a bad idea to drink all that tequila last night, but apparently I’m full of stupid decisions.”

The prince suddenly tensed up, and if anything his glare deepened. But he didn’t say anything, so Stiles barreled right on through.

“I’m sure I can find a way to replace your shoes. Well, I don’t have any money. But I’m sure we can work out some sort of trade. Just please, don’t send me to jail for this.”

The prince just continued glaring, but at that the black guy looked up from what he was doing. “We don’t imprison people for getting sick,” he said stoically. He might have been intending to be kind, but the way he said it, it sounded more like it was a policy based on pragmatism rather than benevolence.

And that made Stiles feel only slightly calmer. “Good. That’s good. I mean, I really am sorry.”

Nonetheless, the black guy gave the prince a pointed look, and the prince, Derek, he supposed Peter introduced him as, took a deep breath through his nose before saying, “It really is okay. It’s not like you did it on purpose.” And dare Stiles believe he actually sounded gentler this time.

“No, yeah,” he said, trying not to come across as the most awkward spazz in existence. “Can we, like, start over?” He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Stiles. High school senior. Completely empty stomach.”

Surprisingly, he took his hand and gave a brief shake. “Derek. Royal prince, I suppose.” 

Right, Stiles thought, feeling slightly queasy once more. Royalty and princes, and the complete epic mess that had apparently become his life.

Derek introduced the other guy as Boyd, said that he worked with Derek, and reiterated the guard’s name as Erica. Then Derek’s boots were declared clean enough, and he slipped them back on.

“So what now?” Stiles asked. He assumed they were going back to Peter’s office, but he didn’t really want to wait around confined in there all day. His nervous energy had never left, and he had no idea what he would do if he didn’t get a chance to unleash some of it.

Derek looked unsure at first, but Boyd cleared his throat. “Maybe we can start with the kitchens. It is after lunch, and since you said you weren’t sick after you—”

Figuring he was looking for a nice way to phrase it, Stiles supplied, “Threw up?”

“Puked your guts out,” Boyd replied deadpan, and Stiles couldn’t help the quiet laugh that burst from him. “Maybe we could find something to settle your stomach.”

Derek furrowed his brows. “I think Peter wanted us to stay mostly out of sight, and the kitchens could be—”

“Kitchens! Ooh, I’m starving,” Erica said, pushing her head into the door. Her sudden appearance had Stiles give a short squawk in surprise.

“But we’ll be in the way,” Derek tried, apparently used to this female guard having no trouble entering a bathroom full of guys.

Erica shook her phone. “Isaac texted that he was in there all alone. I think we’re good.”

And before Stiles knew it, the group had made its way into the kitchens. The fridge and oven were huge and restaurant grade, and the room had all the state-of-the-art equipment. As Erica promised, the large room was practically deserted. Its only occupant was tall guy with curly blond hair sitting at a counter and munching on a sandwich.

As soon as they entered, Erica bounced over to the guy and reached for his food, and when he swatted her away and grumbled for her to get her own meal, she just cackled gleefully. Boyd and Derek both quirked their lips at the antics, and each greeted the guy in their own way. It was obvious the foursome was comfortable around each other, and Stiles just stood by the door awkwardly, missing the easy camaraderie he had with Scott and Danny.

As Derek and Boyd started pulling out sandwich materials from the big industrial fridge, Derek turned to Stiles and said, “When it’s outside regular mealtimes, the kitchen is pretty much serve yourself.”

“Yeah,” said Erica, plastering herself against Boyd’s back. “We’ve made some epic subs when the cooks weren’t here to judge us, so don’t be afraid to go nuts. I’m feeling something with brisket and kimchi myself.” And while he had no doubt that might be delicious, Stiles’s post-hangover stomach did a little unpleasant roll.

“Or maybe something light,” Boyd quietly suggested, and he held out a packet of thinly sliced chicken. 

Stiles took it gratefully, and alongside Derek, Boyd, and Erica, he started assembling his lunch, watching how the other three interacted. Derek obviously had the highest status here. He was a royal prince and the second child of Queen Talia, so theoretically he was second in line for the throne until Princess Laura started to have children of her own. And he knew enough from his government class that even if you weren’t on the throne, most of the members of the royal family had some sort of job or function to support the ruling monarch. Peter’s shady job was just one example. 

Derek had introduced Boyd as his personal assistant, which Stiles also figured was no slouch of a job. Heck, the valedictorian of his school, who considered herself the spiritual successor to Hermione Granger, often said she aspired to be a royal assistant at the palace. Derek was Boyd’s boss, but here the two seemed more like close friends. Boyd was relatively quiet and deferred to Derek on occasion, but Stiles also noticed little moments where Boyd prodded Derek, gently swapping out the mayo for a non-fat substitute or even earlier, when he got Derek to ease up on him in the bathroom. He’d expected strict codes of conduct at the palace, but between these two there were none.

Erica was something else altogether. He didn’t know if it had to do with her station as guard or if it was simply her personality, but she was a weird combination of flirtatious and blunt. She winked, she joked, and she gave small touches to everyone in the room, Stiles included, but her orbit always seemed to take her back to Boyd, where she wouldn’t just touch him with a playful hand on the shoulder. She seemed to instead lean her full body into him, like they slotted together perfectly. And in return Boyd’s stoic expression softened just slightly whenever Erica was near him.

With finished sandwiches in hand—Erica really did go for that brisket and kimchi and even added some worcestershire sauce “for flavoring”—the group went to sit at the counter barstools with the curly-haired guy.

“Stiles, Isaac. Isaac, Stiles,” Erica said by way of introduction.

Isaac quickly wiped off his hands before shaking with Stiles. With a smirk on his face, he asked, “What’d you do to get stuck with these weirdos? You don’t seem like the foreign dignitary type.”

Derek, Erica, and Boyd all froze, and Stiles could feel the weight of their silence. 

And if Isaac’s suddenly concerned expression was anything to go by, he noticed too. “Uh, what’s up, guys?”

“So sorry,” Stiles quipped, acting fast and feigning a breezy expression. “I’m a secret agent, and now that you’ve figured it out they’re worried they have to kill you.”

Isaac and Erica immediately burst out laughing, interspersed with choruses of, “Oh my god.” Stiles shot a grin around the table, and even Boyd lifted an eyebrow in amusement. Derek kept up a perpetual frown of confusion, but Stiles was starting to suspect that was his default expression.

Figuring Isaac might ask who he was again, Stiles tried to supply a simplified version of the truth that wouldn’t spark uncomfortable questions. “Nah, I’m neither foreign nor dignified. I go to school in Beacon Hills, and Peter brought me in for the day.” At least, he assumed it was just for the day.

Isaac looked at him with interest. “Ol’ Duke Hale brought you in, you say.” And Stiles mentally smacked himself for sounding so familiar with Peter. “Maybe you’re a future secret agent.” Isaac smirked again, and then Erica let out a single snort for good measure.

Stiles felt like he was off to a good start with Isaac, and now Erica and to some extent Boyd, even to the point where, when he hesitantly queried Erica about whether he might get his phone back soon, she cheerfully offered to text Peter about it. 

When he asked Isaac what he did in the palace, he replied that like Boyd he was a royal assistant. Of course, when Boyd talked about Derek, he didn’t get as moony-eyed as Isaac did when he talked about working for Allison Argent, the youngest member of the Argent royal family. The guy was clearly smitten with her.

After that, the conversation flowed smoothly. Stiles had a great time discussing some of the ins and outs of their favorite pieces of pop culture. It turned out Erica was as much a Batman fan as he was, although Isaac was purely a Marvel guy, which sparked a big debate as to which comic universe was best represented on screen. Stiles kept insisting that they had to take animated TV shows into consideration. 

When they moved on to discussing how specific DC and Marvel heroes would fare against each other in a fight, even Boyd pitched in an opinion or two. At first he was almost exclusively pro-Marvel until Erica punched him in the arm. After that, he just smiled and insisted that he couldn’t possibly choose between so many great characters.

The real surprise came when Derek broke a heated tie by citing some novelizations he’d read.

The five of them laughed and conversed with each other for a while, and Stiles was happy to forget the awful morning. There in that kitchen, he could almost pretend that he was with a group of normal people. Heck, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd had to be barely older than him, and talking with them felt like communicating with teenagers, especially once Erica started pelting Isaac with spoons when he said that Catwoman was overrated.

To Stiles, this didn’t feel like hidden royalty and stressful mysteries. It was actually, truly fun.

Of course, the fun had to end sometime when a dark-haired teen girl entered the kitchen and Isaac immediately stood to attention with a murmured, “Allison.”

Taking the return of Isaac’s moon-eyed expression to mean this was Allison Argent, he realized she must have been in high school like him. She was wearing a Devenford Prep uniform, which he only recognized because—oh no. No, no, no.

Following her into the kitchen were two other Devenford Prep students. The short strawberry blonde girl was probably the one royal Stiles already knew by sight because he once had a crush on Lydia Martin when he was thirteen and heard about her sharp wit. That crush then blossomed into a healthy admiration and respect when she and Cora Hale made a splash in the press as one of the first Beacon royal couples to be in an out, same-sex relationship. From what he knew of her, she was great.

But the Devenford Prep student trailing in behind her was decidedly less delightful. And while definitely not a part of any royal family, his stupidly extreme good looks and giant ego to match sure made him fit in with the elite. Heaven forbid anyone gaze upon Jackson Whittemore and not feel the need to immediately kneel before him. The self-important prick.

As soon as he caught sight of Stiles, Jackson’s smug expression soured, but Stiles was forced to look away when he heard Isaac mention his name.

“They’re showing Stiles around the palace and agreed to have lunch with me,” at which Stiles received a warm smile from Allison and a polite though distracted nod from Lydia. “Why are you guys out of school so early? Is everything okay?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?” Lydia asked while typing on her phone. “We were called back for some royal emergency.”

“They wouldn’t say much,” Allison said. “Just that there was some important development, so I came looking for you.”

Guessing he was said “important development,” Stiles swallowed nervously and caught Derek frowning out of the corner of his eye.

Of course, that’s when Jackson decided to open his big stupid mouth. “So I guess you can toddle on home, McCall. The big kids need to talk.”

Everyone else looked confused, taking too long to figure out he was talking to Stiles. But that’s okay, Stiles was already moving on to his comeback. “And yet by your own logic you should _toddle on home_ too. I never heard that they added your bloated ego to the royal lineup.”

“Do you know each other?” Allison asked, slowly catching on. “Oh wait, is he your friend at the public high school, Jackson?”

Stiles and Jackson released twin scoffs of protest. As if.

“I really don’t know what Danny sees in you,” Stiles mumbled. Usually he suffered Jackson’s presence for Danny’s sake, but so far today had sucked, and Stiles was sort of itching to swing a few hits.

Jackson’s eyes bugged out. “I’m his best friend! He only hangs out with you when he can’t be with me.”

“Dude,” Stiles cut in. “What are we, in kindergarten? Danny’s totally allowed to have multiple best friends . . . even if I sometimes question his judgment in territorial _assholes_.” He couldn’t help the small prickle of annoyance he felt when Jackson insinuated Danny wasn’t really his close friend. He, Danny, and Scott were ride or die. Exhibit A: that time they all got drunk at his and Scott’s house and committed a stupid prank that would accidentally unweave the entire nature of Stiles’s identity and existence. You know, normal friend stuff.

“You and your mismatched twin bring Danny down just by your mere presence,” Jackson spat back. Stiles felt his cheeks grow hot, too angry that he would talk about Scott like that. “You’re a spastic loser, and you’ll always be a spastic loser.”

“Stop!” The angry bark didn’t come from Stiles, though. All heads turned toward Derek, whose eyebrows now looked downright murderous. His fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides, and when he spoke next, his voice was deceptively quiet. “You will show as much respect to him as you do to my sister Laura.”

Jackson tried to save it with a smirk and a scoff—after all, to him Stiles was obviously a nobody—but Derek cut him off with a look. And that right there was the royal power of a Hale. Everyone in the room, member of one of the royal families or not, stood silent in deference to his word. “Stiles was once a crown prince, and you will not speak to him that way.”

Now the silence was loaded with a whole different energy, and Stiles witnessed the gears turn in Isaac’s, Allison’s, and Jackson’s heads. Lydia let out a small, “Prince Mieczysław,” and Erica released a low whistle with a, “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, guys.”

Jackson, now seemingly caught on, gaped back and forth between Stiles and Derek.

“And you will apologize,” Derek growled.

“No, that’s not the point,” Stiles cut in, earning startled looks from all around. “Whether I’m Stiles McCall or . . . a prince . . . I’m not some passive nerd, and you don’t get to talk to me or about my family like that.” He stepped toward Jackson and cocked his head toward him, lowering his voice threateningly. “Besides, I know plenty of things that aren’t even state secrets. Things like what _really_ happened at Danny’s sixteenth birthday party.” 

When the color drained from Jackson’s face, Stiles let his features melt into a sinister smile. He’d been looking for a reason to hold that over Jackson for over two years. Despite what Scott and Danny always said, he could be patient when it suited him.

. . .

Derek cursed his own big mouth. He didn’t even mean to let Stiles’s identity slip out. Jackson was always kind of a snake, and he’d let him get under his skin. Add to that the sudden flashbacks he’d had of Kate going on about the natural respect surrounding the throne, and he’d let the anger overcome him.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t impressed with Stiles’s response. And he kind of wished he knew what dirt Stiles had on Jackson.

Regardless, Derek didn’t think they were ever going to ease the tension in the room. Jackson had been effectively cowed, but based on how Allison and Lydia were staring at Stiles, he had no doubts that this was going to be a thing now. He knew Lydia especially was not going to let this drop. Once she was interested in something, she wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. 

Case in point, once she and his sister were interested in each other, they made their relationship public without a hint of shame or remorse. Lydia and Cora were rather similar; although Cora was more blunt and Lydia was more cunning, neither had the time for anyone’s bullshit. And while he could safely assume that Lydia’s interest in the puzzle that was this newly found missing prince wasn’t quite on the same level as her relationship with Cora, Lydia approached even intellectual puzzles with a certain merciless prowess. That plus her natural genius IQ, and Derek sometimes wondered if Peter should be worried about his job, because she would no doubt do it just as well if not better.

Stiles, though, took everything in stride. Derek had to hand it to him for being able to expertly dodge a few pointed questions about being Prince Mieczysław. Instead, he cracked that bright smile of his and kept turning the conversation around until Lydia caught wise and Allison took pity for the weird position he was in.

Derek was oddly fascinated by that smile. During their conversation over lunch, when it was just Derek, Stiles, Boyd, Erica, and Isaac, he’d seen Stiles smile for the first time since they met in Peter’s office. At first, Derek felt stunned. They were discussing some inane minutiae about comic books, but Stiles’s face lit up like it was the happiest day of the year for him. He’d gone on about pop culture and analyzed so many movies and TV shows that Derek could tell he was smart and incisive. But that goofy grin did something to his face; it absolutely transformed him from that pale shaking teenager he’d seen in Peter’s office.

So Derek wasn’t too surprised when all it took were a few more flashes of that winning smile to deflect Lydia and Allison. Heck, even Jackson wasn’t completely immune. The guy didn’t ooze nearly as much hostility as he did when he entered the room. Maybe all it took to reign in his aggressive ego was Stiles’s sharp tongue and his take-no-shit attitude. Although, now that he thought about it, that must have been how Lydia put up with Jackson’s slimy personality all these years; long ago she likely let Jackson know that she would not hesitate to clap back.

Suddenly, everyone was chatting excitedly, and Derek had to blink several times to bring himself back to the present. Erica had grabbed Boyd’s wrist and was pulling him out of the room, cackling maniacally. Jackson and Lydia had perched themselves on a couple of stools, and Lydia was announcing that she was setting her phone’s timer for five minutes.

“Wait, what?” Derek asked.

Allison shot him one playful wink and hooked her elbow through his before dragging him out of the kitchen, and he could see Isaac doing the same with Stiles. The four of them flew through the halls, around one corner, and turned the opposite way down the next.

“Like I said,” Allison said, smirking, “Stiles didn’t come here to get the tour everyone can see with a paid ticket.”

“Not that I’ve even seen the palace that way either,” Stiles shot back with a smirk.

Isaac laughed and chipped in. “And what better way to see the place like those of us who live here than to play our age-old game of hide-and-seek.”

Derek groaned then slid to a stop. “Is that really what we’re doing? It’s age-old only because we haven’t played this since we were literal children.”

“Speak for yourself,” Allison said with a wink at Stiles.

Stiles just laughed right back with her then turned to Derek. “There’s no harm, right? This place is so huge, even the most repressed, shuttered adult would be overjoyed at the prospect of hide-and-seek here.” He poked at Derek’s arm for emphasis.

“But—” Derek felt he ought to put up at least some form of resistance, but those bright brown eyes were really too much.

“Besides, every time the seeker finds someone, they join in seeking. We can’t let Erica beat us.”

Derek let out a long-suffering sigh and rubbed his face with one hand. Taking it for the concession it was, Stiles released a short cheer.

“Yeah, yeah, woo hoo,” Isaac said, grabbing Allison’s hand. “You argued the teddy bear into submission.” Then the two of them skipped off in a different direction, dodging the growl Derek threw his way for the teddy bear comment, and only calling out, “Now find your own damn hiding spot,” before disappearing around a corner.

And just like that, he and Stiles were alone.

Shaking his head, Derek turned back to Stiles, who was rocking on his heels. “So it looks like you’re leading this rodeo, because I have no idea where we are.” He flashed Derek a shy grin, probably still not sure where they stood, and Derek felt a little helpless in the face of that small smile.

Without thinking about it too deeply, Derek took Stiles’s hand and started leading him off in a direction. “Come on, we should move. I know a place close by, but Lydia is super competitive.” 

Derek felt his heart stutter at the return of that thousand-kilowatt smile. Stiles let himself be dragged down the hall where Derek led him.

Derek knew exactly where they should go. It was probably his favorite place in the whole palace, the one place, except for his own room, where he felt like he could truly be himself. He went there to be alone, to distract himself, or even just to work, because the place was so much more peaceful than the joke of an office he had, where the phone constantly rang and people came looking for him to answer minor questions or give opinions on things that didn’t matter. 

Derek hadn’t been kidding; it really wasn’t far from where they had been. He got to the right set of double doors, and when he saw Stiles lean forward with interest when he read the sign on them, he knew he had picked the perfect spot: the library.

They each grabbed a door handle to pull open both doors at once, and Stiles let out a quiet gasp when he saw the rows and rows of bookshelves stacked in the giant room. Tall, floor-to-ceiling windows let in plenty of light, and there were several desks and plush armchairs to accommodate what any visitor wanted.

“Well, it’s official,” Stiles said, still staring at the books around them, “there really is heaven on earth.” 

“And if anyone shows up looking for us, there’s a few nooks to hide in around here.” Although, Derek did purposefully leave out the fact that he knew exactly where the two-person hiding holes were because Kate often made a habit of dropping in on him while he was working or relaxing by himself. He can’t say she ever really came at the most convenient times, but it often felt good during her visits.

Of course, he would never tell Stiles that. Even if he and Kate weren’t supposed to be a secret, it wasn’t his business anyway.

Instead, what he said was, “So I take it you like to read?”

Stiles sputtered. “Like to—?” He let out a whining moan then paused and side-eyed Derek suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me?”

Derek threw up pacifying hands. “No, I really am not. It’s just, I like to read too.” He grazed his hand lovingly over a nearby shelf of books. “History, fiction, science, poetry. It’s just nice to be able to sit down and see so many different people’s thoughts laid out so carefully. Like, they researched and took the time to find out exactly what they wanted to say. I admire that.” 

When Stiles didn’t say anything, Derek looked up and saw that he was looking right at him, expression soft and eyes bright. 

“I kind of get it,” Stiles said. “In the moment it can be hard to express yourself—or focus your thoughts into saying exactly what you mean. People explain things at their own pace, and it’s nice that with books, blogs, and even videos that you can also consume their ideas at _your_ own pace.”

“Yeah,” Derek simply said. That, and it always somehow felt safer to deal with feelings and words when they were written down.

But he didn’t tell Stiles that.

Instead, he said, “I think there’s something here that might interest you particularly.”

Stiles released a hum of curiosity, and Derek took him to a cozy alcove in the shelves, in a section of obscure historical politics that not many people wandered into when they passed through the library. Nestled between two tall bookshelves was a narrow section of wall, hung upon which was a large painting of a woman. 

Derek had long ago taken comfort in her kind gaze and quiet serenity. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, and what could be seen of the dress, down to the waist, was simply cut, clad in the colors of her royal house. Her mouth was quirked upwards with a slight smile, and the artist had captured a light behind her deep amber eyes that made the beholder think she knew your secrets. Her white hands were folded and rested on her lap, and Derek knew there was the barest dot of a single mole near her lips.

It was one of the few paintings commissioned during Queen Claudia’s reign that hadn’t burned in the fire eight years ago.

But as soon as Derek pulled Stiles around the corner and let him gaze upon the painting, it wasn’t the quiet awe he’d expected or even the polite confusion he’d also imagined.

As soon as Stiles saw Queen Claudia’s painting, his breath hitched in his throat, and he froze, staring at the painting, seemingly entranced. When he breathed out, Derek caught the barest hint of a horrified whisper. “That smile,” he said.

Derek looked back up at the painting. Queen Claudia was no doubt beautiful. He’d seen her pretty regularly when she was alive, but since he was never older than fifteen, he’d never interacted with her for extended periods of time. But, from the memories he did have, Derek had always felt this painting captured her energy the best. When he’d catch glimpses of her image in the canvas, he sometimes liked to think she was really across the room from him.

Now, though, seeing Stiles stare up at her visage, pale as ever and brown eyes open wide, the sentiment felt morbid and out of place.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said softly. He was an idiot. He should have guessed that leading Stiles here would come off crass and insensitive. Assuming he was the missing Prince Mieczysław, what did he hope to accomplish by showing him his dead mother’s portrait?

But those wide brown eyes came to rest on him, and a hand gently touched his arm. “No. Thank you. It just—” Stiles hesitated. “That’s the—she’s my. . . .” He huffed a breath. “While it’s not exactly a secret, I don’t like to telegraph the fact that I don’t remember anything before, well. . . .” He absentmindedly reached up to fiddle with something on his temple, and Derek was close enough to see, as he brushed back a lock of his hair, that there was a small raised scar there.

“For eight years I always wondered who my parents were. Whether they missed me or knew I was lost. And I couldn’t remember them, not really. All I had were bits and pieces. A smile. The feeling of safety. And then all of a sudden I see this and—” He gestured vaguely to the painting in front of them. “It’s just a lot, you know?”

Derek nodded. “I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do if the situation were reversed.”

Stiles laughed softly. “Normally I’d say, ‘same,’ but. . . .” He drifted off, and the two of them were silent for several moments before he said, “After everything I’ve found out today, sometimes I wonder.”

Derek snuck a glance sideways to Stiles, who was still staring up at the painting of Queen Claudia.

“I’ve gone through it over and over today, and the pieces don’t all fit,” he said absently. “I walk around here, and some things feel almost familiar, just out of my reach, like—like—”

“Like you know the perfect word, and it’s just on the tip of your tongue?” Derek tried.

Stiles shot him a quick smile. “Yeah. But so much doesn’t feel right either.”

Derek hummed, wordlessly prompting him to continue. He could almost sense the gears turning in Stiles’s head. He looked so focused, and he didn’t want to interrupt.

“A fire engulfed the wing of what is arguably the most important building to our government,” Stiles said. “I admit history is not my strongest subject, but how often has that happened?”

Derek knew his history. Since this version of the palace was built, there was exactly one other fire of note, and it only happened in the gatehouse. In like the 1800s, when kerosene lanterns and horses eating hay were a lot more widespread. So never when they actually had built-in electricity and fire safety glass.

“I’m starting to wonder,” Stiles said, “whether it really was an accident. And if not, that the person who set it got exactly what they wanted.”

Startled, Derek glanced back at Stiles to see him still staring at the painting, his mouth set in a sober line.

To hear an echo of Peter’s worries from earlier was surprising to say the least. He’d halfway chalked it up to Peter’s usual paranoia. After all, that’s why Peter was so good at his job. He was always willing to dig into the details that made other people uncomfortable, to see exactly what was hidden within the dark corners of people’s souls.

Could it be that the fire from eight years ago was really set specifically to kill the queen? It seemed impossible to Derek. The palace had been his home his whole life. His mother, his sisters, his uncle, and the other royal families—the Argents and the Martins—and all who worked full time in the palace had been housed safely here for generations. 

But so had the Stilinskis, hadn’t they? 

If Derek had been asked a week ago whether he thought anything suspicious had ever happened here, he would have laughed in their face and listed the names of all the people who keep the palace safe.

However, eight years ago it hadn’t been safe for one wing alone. The rest of the building had been virtually untouched. Derek felt sick at the thought of what would have happened if the wing that caught fire had been the one that housed _his_ family. What if he had lost Cora or Laura or his mother?

But Derek also felt guilty that it wasn’t his family that was torn apart. It wasn’t just any wing of the palace. It had been the queen, her husband, and their child. And now that he thought about it that way, it hardly seemed plausible that it could just be some random accident. A horrible tragedy, yes. But maybe not really an accident.

And if that were true, and whoever it was got exactly what they wanted eight years ago, did that mean they were still at large?

. . .

Stiles was shaken. He didn’t mean to lay out his paranoid ramblings on Derek. But he had to admit that painting threw him off his game. 

It had just been so sudden. Derek was leading him through this gorgeous library, and then he’d seen it. That smile. Those hands. They were oh so familiar. Quick images he’d seen in his dreams for eight years. The only pieces his broken mind had allowed him to associate with that one word almost forbidden to him: mom.

If he’d had any doubts before now, he supposed this uncanny connection was just enough to convince him. Queen Claudia was his mother, so that meant he—however unlikely it had seemed—really was this Prince Mieczysław. Holy shit, that sounded so weird, even in his head.

“Let’s get out of here,” he declared, maybe a little too suddenly, if Derek’s startled furrowed brow was anything to go by. “I mean,” he said, trying to cast around for a reason that didn’t reveal his quickly devolving emotional state, “Do the rules of hide-and-seek let us change hiding spots every now and then? Because if we avoid becoming sitting ducks, we’re more likely to win.” He tried to add a casual laugh at the end, but even to his ears it sounded forced.

Derek didn’t look too convinced, or impressed, but he let it slide. “I guess we could try circling around the back.”

Stiles didn’t need prompting twice. He took Derek’s hand and enthusiastically proclaimed that he would follow his lead.

Derek took him out a side door and through another series of hallways almost identical to the ones they’d been through from the kitchen to the library. Man, this place was too big. Without Derek there to guide him, he would surely get hopelessly lost.

“So, uh, whereabouts are we, do you think?” he asked, partly so he could maybe start to make sense of this labyrinthine building and partly to just make conversation.

Derek glanced around halfheartedly. When you lived here every day, you likely didn’t find it that special. “One of the royal residential areas. We’re actually pretty close to my rooms.”

Stiles instantly perked up at that. “What, seriously? Can I see?” He’d now spent hours with Prince Derek Hale, the unattainable heartthrob of half his school—and okay, yes, Stiles did indeed have eyes; the guy was stupidly good looking—so he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little curious to see how the guy lived. “Are you allowed to decorate your rooms, or are you restricted to the palace decorators? Oh wait, do you have antique furniture? Do you have a chair that used to belong to a king?”

Derek made a face. “I think my wardrobe belonged to a duke,” he said wryly.

And holy crap. “Did you just make a joke?” Stiles sputtered. The smile he got in return was mostly teeth, but he still considered it a win.

“Of course I could give my room my own personal touch,” Derek said while rolling his eyes. “We don’t live in a monastery here.” His eyes darted to a set of double doors, and Stiles would bet every hat Danny owned that they led to Derek’s rooms.

“So how did you decorate your personal space?” Stiles asked, ducking toward that set of doors. His hand hovered over the door handle, and he twisted his neck back to smile coyly at Derek. “You’ve already revealed yourself to be a book-loving nerd, so I bet you have shelves. Is that where you hide all the girly romance novels you’re ashamed of? Not that you have to be ashamed; the heart wants what the heart wants. I bet you have two copies of _Twilight_.”

Derek’s mouth twisted at the _Twilight_ comment, but he didn’t say anything discouraging. Stiles maintained eye contact as he slowly pulled the door knob, watching for any sign of discomfort from Derek or a clue that he didn’t want Stiles entering his personal space.

Derek still said nothing, so taking that as all the permission he would receive, Stiles shot him a playful wink, threw one of the doors open, and barged right on inside.

Only, Derek’s room wasn’t empty when he entered. Lounging on a sofa was a sultry blonde woman. She looked up sharply when the door slammed open, and Stiles felt his silly grin drop from his face.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said severely. Which, okay, wow, rude. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have it on pretty good authority that this isn’t your room either.” So sue him; he can be rude too. Something about this woman absolutely rubbed him the wrong way. He felt his hackles rising just being in her presence, and while he couldn’t for the life of him explain _why_ , he figured his gut was usually right more often than it was wrong.

And that’s when Derek came in right behind him. As soon as he saw the woman, he stiffened in surprise and gasped, “Kate.”

The woman’s transformation was instantaneous. As soon as she spotted Derek, she took on a sultry expression, eyes quivering slightly as she purred Derek’s name.

And wow, ick, Stiles usually wasn’t one to judge, but he guessed Derek and this Kate woman _knew_ each other. Like, in the Biblical sense.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked her dazedly. He was very unsubtly darting his gaze between Kate and Stiles, and Stiles wasn’t sure if there was some hidden message that _he_ was supposed to be picking up here, or if he was silently communicating with Kate.

“I wanted to see you,” Kate said, angling herself between Stiles and Derek. “After our conversation this morning, I heard that you were called in to . . . assist, and if you’re done I just wanted to—” She cut off abruptly then snuck a hidden glance at Stiles, and the brief flash of malice he quickly glimpsed had him swallow nervously. He instinctively thought about stepping back to put some distance between himself and her, but as quickly as it came, the expression evaporated again, leaving Kate with her syrupy sweet mask for Derek.

Derek, of course, seemed not to notice. “Yeah, I’m still . . . assisting.” He also snuck a quick glance at Stiles, and Stiles felt his face flush with embarrassment. Oh. They were talking about him. 

Stiles, who had never been one to miss when he wasn’t welcome in a room, clapped his hands together. “Yeah, you’ve assisted enough, I guess. Better get some chill time with your girlfriend while you have it. I’ll just go find Peter myself.”

He turned to exit the room, wondering the odds of him finding Erica or Isaac while they were hiding and seeking. He was desperately hoping he could ignore the furrowed eyebrows pointed his way right at that moment.

Then a small female cry sounded behind him. “Derek, you don’t think he’d—”

Stiles felt his arm caught, and he whirled around to face Derek’s deep frown. “You can’t tell Peter,” Derek said desperately.

“Tell Peter what?” Stiles said, trying for casual. “That your girlfriend was in your room? Chill, I’m sure it’s fine.” But he was cut off when Derek’s hand squeezed him tighter.

“You can’t tell Peter,” he insisted again. “Or else.”

Stiles tried to squirm out of Derek’s grip, but the guy was bigger than him, and stronger, and wouldn’t let go. Stiles felt trapped, and he definitely did not respond well to intimidation. “Message received. Your relationship’s secret, and I can see why the weird age difference might concern your family. Even _I’m_ getting some cougar vibes.” He shot a pointed look toward Kate, whose expression soured at his cheap shot at her age. 

Derek’s expression turned murderous. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, all I know is what’s right in front of my face, dude. But hey, I’m just one guy’s opinion.”

“Not that anyone can trust the opinion of some random kid who shows up out of the blue, sick with a hangover!” Derek bellowed, and Stiles’s prepared comeback died in his throat. Cheap shot number two had just been fired. Right at him.

“Don’t think you have a right to just waltz in here and pass whatever proclamations or judgments you deem fit,” Derek continued, building up steam. “Who even knows what kind of life you led or what kind of people you spent time with.”

What kind of people he— “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Stiles demanded.

Derek scoffed, and Stiles felt so small on the receiving end of such derision. Derek apparently thought he was an idiot or something. “You cook up all these conspiracy theories, but did you even consider what kind of people kept you for so long? It’s a good thing Peter is investigating them, because if there’s something to dig up, he’ll find it for sure. He always does.”

Stiles felt all the breath escape from his lungs. Did he mean Melissa and Scott? Peter was investigating Melissa and Scott? Digging into their personal lives. Looking for dirt wherever he could find it.

Stiles knew Peter Hale’s reputation was harsh. Peter Hale supposedly did anything he thought was in the best interest of the royal families and the country. If he had somehow gotten it into his head that Stiles had been taken by Melissa eight years ago—however wrong that was—what would he do to her and Scott? Would he arbitrarily ruin their lives just to close the case on Stiles’s fucked-up situation?

The air in the room was beginning to feel thin, and Stiles felt caged in. He knew he was starting to hyperventilate, but he couldn’t stop. He needed to get out of there. Now.

He struggled against Derek’s grip again, but the prince just held on tighter and once again demanded that he promise not to say anything about him and Kate. But it was too much. Stiles couldn’t handle it.

“Just let me go!” he cried, voice cracking with emotion.

That seemed to do the trick. Derek took a startled step backward, releasing Stiles, and Stiles immediately spun around and ran out into the hallway. He didn’t care if he got lost roaming the palace. He needed to find a way out.

“Stiles!” Erica came bounding around the corner, Boyd close on her heels. “You guys technically win, but I call foul. Derek knows the no-private-quarters rule.” But when she saw Stiles’s face, she slid to a stop, and her expression hardened. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Stiles waved a shaking hand, not trusting himself to explain anything calmly. “I just need to go home. Please, Erica. Can I collect my phone and go?” He hated how much his voice shook, but he was pretty proud of himself for not breaking down right then and there.

Erica suddenly looked sheepish. “I’m so sorry. I asked Peter for your phone, but he said it went missing.”

Of course. Peter Hale ‘lost’ his phone. His phone, which had all of his contacts in Beacon Hills. It had years of photos, videos, and app usage that could no doubt be used as evidence against whatever bogus case they were building against Melissa.

“I need to go home now,” Stiles insisted. He knew he must look wild in that moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to really care right then.

“Okay,” Erica said kindly. “Boyd and I will get you home safe.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he could really believe them. Erica at the very least worked for Peter. But then he remembered the laughter they shared over lunch. Erica proudly defending Catwoman to her core, and Boyd showing nothing but gentle kindness toward him since they were introduced.

He let the couple lead him through the hallways of the palace and started to feel the panic ease just a tiny bit when he recognized the main entrance they’d arrived through that morning. He knew the palace kept cars waiting right outside.

Stiles was so desperate to get out into the open air. The walls of the palace had started to feel stifling, and he ached with the need to go home, somewhere it was safe and there were people who knew him and loved him. Melissa and Scott had to be worried sick since he was taken out of school. He wanted to return to them while he had the chance to leave.

He was so eager to leave the palace and never look back that he barged right out the doors, barely registering the startled protests from two random guards nearby.

He had already pushed his way outside before he noticed the buzzing crowd, who, as soon as he left the safety of the palace doors, immediately swarmed around him.

Camera flashes blinded his vision, and people were shoving wireless microphones toward his face and enthusiastically shouting, “Prince Mieczysław!”

“Prince Mieczysław, where have you been these last eight years?”

“Prince Mieczysław, what happened the night Queen Claudia died?”

“Prince Mieczysław!”

“Prince Mieczysław!”

The wave of sound and lights sent his senses into overload. People were pressing toward him from all sides, and in his panic he froze, unable to move in any direction without getting accosted by a crowd of reporters and news crews. 

A heavy hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched away before he realized that it was Boyd. With Erica barking orders at people to back off and give space, Boyd was able to encircle Stiles in his protective arms and guide him back into the safety of the palace. As soon as the doors closed once again, the shouting outside had muffled into a dull drone.

Stiles could tell that Erica and Boyd were asking him if he was all right, but he couldn’t respond. His panting breaths had devolved into irregular gasps, and he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe properly.

His knees felt wobbly, and he could vaguely tell that strong hands were holding him upright, but he couldn’t get anything past the fog his brain was in. And, oh right. This is what his panic attacks used to feel like. Back when he’d had those awful nightmares the first few years he’d lived with the McCalls.

Stiles tried to calm himself down. He tried to remember the breathing and thinking exercises that Melissa and Scott used to coach him through, but nothing was working. All he could think about was what was going to happen to Melissa and Scott. All he’d wanted was to protect them, but now it looked like he was the exact reason Peter was going after them. If their lives were ruined, it was going to be all Stiles’s fault. They were good people; they didn’t deserve this.

Then, it felt like a new shape was in front of him, and a man’s voice said, “Stiles, look at me. I need you to breathe.” The voice was soft yet familiar. Not familiar in the way that Queen Claudia’s painting was familiar, like in a kind of ethereal long-lost, this-is-right kind of way. It was familiar like he remembered hearing it before, like it was something that belonged to his life in Beacon Hills.

“Melissa,” Stiles gasped out desperately. He had to make sure she was all right. He needed to go home.

The voice asked him to breathe in and out on its count. In for a short bit, and out for longer. Stiles did his best to follow the voice’s instructions, trying to filter out all the anxiety and stress and emotional turmoil piled on from the day. Under the voice’s gentle ministrations, slowly, very slowly, the knot in his chest began to loosen, and he was able to take deeper and longer breaths until eventually his spastic heartrate started evening out.

Stiles was able to pull himself out of the fog, and he realized that he was sitting on the floor now, and Boyd and Erica were crouched a ways away sporting twin expressions of concern on their faces.

Now that he was able to really process the man kneeling in front of him, Stiles was confused all over again. “Deaton?” he wearily questioned.

Talk about worlds colliding. He didn’t know how to describe Deaton other than as a kind of friend of the McCall family. He’d always been a periphery fixture in Stiles’s life, with a semi-monthly dinner at the McCall house and the odd holiday celebration. Scott was closer to him in all truthfulness; he even considered the guy as a kind of father figure. 

But still, this was the first familiar face Stiles had seen all day, and the small smile he received from the man was a bit of a relief.

“Glad you’re back, Stiles. Do you think you’re okay to get up?”

Stiles looked around, and blushed when he realized he was sitting on the floor literally right in the middle of the palace entrance. Erica and Boyd must have cleared out a space for him, but beyond them he could see a couple guards and other palace workers looking on with curiosity. He ducked his head back down. “Yes, please, let’s get out of here.”

Erica and Boyd helped him to his feet. Apparently Lydia’s rooms weren’t far and would be a safe and quiet place to retreat for now. 

Before they could start leading him away, though, Stiles called out, “Wait,” to Deaton before he retreated in another direction. “Wait, I have to warn Melissa,” he started.

Deaton’s smile turned sad. “I talked with Melissa. She’s worried about you, of course. Scott too.”

“I just need them safe,” Stiles pleaded quietly. “Please keep them safe.”

Deaton seemed to understand what he was driving at. “Always,” he said with seriousness.

Then they parted, and Stiles let Erica and Boyd guide him down a few hallways until they got to the Martins’ wing of the palace. As soon as Lydia answered their knock on her door, she quickly herded them to a sitting room that was tastefully yet elegantly decorated. 

He was still shaken from his panic attack and numbly let Erica and Lydia swaddle him in a fuzzy throw blanket before they sat him down on the plush couch between the two of them. As Lydia started flipping through channels on the large flatscreen TV, Stiles sunk tiredly into the warmth and protection between these two girls he’d just met that day.

Of course, that comfort couldn’t last long. All thoughts of rest immediately flew from his mind when a news channel displayed a photo of him on the screen with the caption, “Missing Stilinski prince found alive after eight years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Hoped you liked it. Next chapter is coming in three days.
> 
> Feel free to shout theories and greetings at me in the comments. We'll shoot the breeze or chew the fat, or some other weird saying, together. Or if you like lame jokes, there's always [Tumblr](https://mrdcoolblue.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has two—count 'em, two—moodboard images by [Purpleyin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin). Many, many thanks to them for joining me in this Big Bang. Let them know if you appreciate their art on [Tumblr](https://purpleyin.tumblr.com/).

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189357822@N05/50268176328/in/photostream/)

Derek was back in the workout room, taking his frustration out on a couple of medicine balls. They were heavy and clunky, and it felt good when he tossed them against the mat.

He was still reeling after that confrontation. He knew he’d overreacted, maybe even went a little too far. Once again he’d acted like a meathead, and he wasn’t even sure who he’d disappointed more, Kate or himself.

All that had been going through his head was the fear of discovery. He and Kate were supposed to be a secret; she’d always insisted that no one would understand what they’d had, and somewhere in the back of his mind, some part of him worried that if his mother didn’t approve, then that would somehow drive them apart. He’d gone along with it, even when the sneaking around felt dishonest. It had gone on so long that if their relationship did come out, then the fact that they’d hidden it would be an even bigger deal.

Then Stiles, who didn’t even know the tinderbox he’d dived right into with a lit match, had stumbled in and put everything at risk. Kate had looked upset, Derek had reacted, and he didn’t feel proud of anything that came out afterward. Even after Stiles had left and Derek had tried to comfort Kate, she just sidestepped him and stalked away, muttering something about damage control and leaving Derek alone feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

When the door opened and shut behind him, Derek pointedly ignored it because he already knew who it was.

“Well, I haven’t seen you mope like this since you were seventeen. It brings back such fond memories.”

“Go away, Peter,” Derek said.

“Sorry, Nephew, but the pouting is going to have to resume at a later date. You’re needed now.”

“I think I’ve done enough for today,” Derek said. Now that he’d lobbed all the medicine balls, he reached down to take a drink from his water bottle. “Stiles left the palace, so I can’t see what you could possibly need me for.”

“And that’s what happens when you hole up by yourself. You miss things,” Peter said coldly. “There’s been some serious developments. Come now. And don’t bother showering; there isn’t time.”

All feelings of self-pity were startled out of Derek. Peter always liked to take his time to tease and banter. He never got this abrupt unless something was wrong.

Peter took Derek to Lydia’s rooms, and as soon as he knocked on the door, it cracked open to reveal Lydia’s frowning face. 

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” she said quietly, eyeing them both before she let them in.

She took them to her personal living room, where the rest of the palace teens were already assembled and watching a news segment on TV. Nobody turned their heads when he and Peter entered, so Derek took a spot in the back to observe what was going on. To his surprise, he saw the back of Stiles’s head on the couch; the kid was sitting in the middle with a blanket wrapped around him while Erica and Isaac sat protectively on either side. Boyd was leaning against the back of the couch behind Erica, and Lydia had gone to perch primly on the arm of the chair his sister Cora was sitting in. Jackson was pacing in the back of the room; he had shot Derek and Peter a concerned frown when they made their entrance, but now he was back to watching the glowing television screen with the others, his brows furrowing even further.

The news segment had two anchors talking about Stiles. When Derek realized, he leaned forward, something akin to guilt twisting in his stomach. They had a photo of him plastered on the screen, obviously a selfie taken recently; even with his goofy grin, Derek could tell he hadn’t aged any.

How had the media gotten wind that Stiles was the missing Prince Mieczysław? Peter had been taking great pains to make sure the news didn’t leak prematurely, and if the murderous expression he was sporting now was any indication, Peter was deeply unhappy with this new development.

On TV, the two anchors were recapping the story of Queen Claudia’s death from eight years ago, including how her only son, the crown prince at the time, had gone missing in the chaos of the fire and was presumed by many to be dead. They took turns expressing the depths of their shock, but both stopped just short of actually speculating what had happened to him.

Derek noticed a small movement on the couch and caught a glimpse of Erica laying one comforting hand on Stiles’s arm.

Next came a segment about all the royal families as a whole. It was all old news to Derek. They detailed how, after the turmoil following Queen Claudia’s death and her only heir’s disappearance, the country had been thrown into uncertainty when any of the three remaining royal families could have taken over the throne. 

Derek himself didn’t remember much about the talks that were going on at the time; he was only fifteen years old. But he did remember the rampant speculation going on. With the Stilinskis gone, which royal family would take on a new dynasty for the crown? He didn’t remember the exact ins and outs of the politics back then; everyone was desperately avoiding any appearance of in-fighting, trying to keep Beacon’s government strong. But what it really boiled down to was the fact that they didn’t want a repeat of what they were going through in the wake of Queen Claudia’s death. Probably one of the biggest contributing factors in the decision to crown Talia as the next queen was that she had three young, healthy heirs.

That’s really all it came down to, Derek thought. His mother was a great queen, but he bet the parliament and council chose her more for the continuation of the royal bloodlines. It wasn’t so much her natural talent to be head of state as it was that she was just a prolific breeder. Logic like that was part of the reason Derek was second in line until Laura started having children of her own, as if starting a lineage from Laura only really counted once her fertility was proven. Logic like that was also why Lydia’s and Cora’s relationship had caused quite a splash, because a female-female partnership wouldn’t produce royal heirs, regardless of how common same-sex marriages had become in recent decades for the general population. It might even mean that the Martin royal line will die with Lydia.

Derek hated the thought that his value might one day be determined by how many Hale babies he could get a partner to spit out. Sometimes he wondered if that was his uncle Peter’s greatest rebellion: his refusal to continue the Hale name under his branch of the family tree.

Of course, that’s when the news segment started listing all the living members of the royal families, including photos as visual aid. Derek barely registered the group shot they showed of him with his sisters. But when Kate’s face flashed on the screen while they talked about the Argents, he saw Stiles settle uncomfortably on the couch, and the hot ball of shame in his stomach flared up once again.

The segment ended when the anchors came back on. “We now have a breaking update. Footage from Beacon Hills High School, apparently where Prince Mieczysław has been anonymously enrolled for nearly four years, shows some of the last moments we have of the missing prince before he disappeared behind the walls of the palace. We’re showing it to you now.”

The screen cut to some shaky footage with no sound. It looked like it was some spectator in a crowd, obviously a random civilian, lifting their phone above the heads in front of them to show a typical school hallway. Two dark-haired teenage boys ran in front of the frame, and Derek felt Jackson stiffen beside him and mutter, “Danny.” That must have been the friend Jackson and Stiles had fought over in the kitchens earlier.

The camera kept moving in a frustratingly shaky arc across the frame, and when it finally landed on its subject, the news anchors began narrating. “As you viewers at home can see, the student believed to be Prince Mieczysław is being escorted through the school by one of the royal palace guards.” 

At a far distance from the camera, Derek could see what he recognized as Erica in her guard uniform. She was holding on to Stiles’s arm, leading him away down the school. It looked like Jackson’s Danny and the other teenager were chasing after them.

“It looks like a bit of a struggle there,” one anchor queried.

“It sure does,” the other anchor said. “We don’t have ID on the other teens in the footage, and we don’t yet know the assumed name under which Prince Mieczysław was enrolled at the high school. Experts have confirmed that it is indeed a palace guard’s uniform.”

“We can only speculate why this scuffle happened at the school at all. But, folks, we do have another angle on the proceedings right here.” The camera angle shifted, this one catching some of the other students in the school observing through their classroom doorways, some sporting phones recording video or photographs.

This angle was much closer to Stiles and Erica. It even had a near frontal view of their faces as they passed by. In this image, Stiles was once again the pale, sick teenager he’d seen in Peter’s office. The look on his face was alarming. His open face looked younger than his eighteen years. 

From this angle, Derek could see that Erica had a firm grip on his arm, and Stiles was almost pulling bodily away from her. His elbow, anchored by her fist curled around his lower bicep, jutted away from his body as he tried to twist back toward his trailing friends. His mouth moved soundlessly on the screen, talking quickly through worry-filled words, his eyebrows dipped with desperation and fear.

Stiles had been scared. Derek didn’t know exactly what had happened down at the school, but this footage showed one thing clearly. Stiles had been afraid. He didn’t know he was being escorted by Erica. He thought he was being taken from his school by a palace guard.

And now Derek absolutely hated himself. Earlier in his rooms, he’d been scared that his relationship with Kate would be found out, and that fear triggered his anger. He’d lashed out, yelled, said what he knew would hurt. Because he was too scared to let go of what he feared would be taken away from him.

But there was a whole other side to that story. Stiles likely felt a continuation of that fear from when he’d been taken away from his friends. “Just let me go!” he’d said. At the time, it had shocked Derek enough to suddenly realize that he’d been holding him in a bruising grip. He’d felt shame in that instant, but now, seeing this footage, it was more than that. 

He knew what this footage looked like, even though he knew Erica wouldn’t purposefully hurt someone innocent. This still looked bad, and what Derek had done was even worse, mostly because he was a prince. He’d been the kind of brute his mother taught him not to be. He’d used intimidation when he had long ago promised himself that his position of power meant he would never exercise control over somebody. He wouldn’t be that kind of leader.

But he’d done that. And he’d scared Stiles, who had been scared enough before then.

Derek hated himself, and he deserved for his family to find out about Kate.

“We don’t know for sure what has happened since this footage was taken this morning,” one of the anchors continued. “All we know is that Prince Mieczysław was taken in a car that went straight to the palace, but all royal officials have declined to comment as of this time.”

“Where has Mieczysław Stilinski, one-time crown prince and only heir to the Beacon throne, been these last eight years? Has Beacon’s son been safe this whole time, or has some nefarious group kept him from being discovered all these years? And why has he been spirited away to the palace with no word when we all want to know what kind of young man he’s become?”

“The prince was reportedly spotted at the palace entrance mere minutes ago by our ground team. But the sighting was brief, and he disappeared once more inside the palace. Once again, royal officials declined to comment. We’ll keep our correspondent at the palace to give you all the first updates on the prince’s status.”

“That’s a first look right there. Please stay tuned, folks.”

The news cut to a commercial break, and Lydia quickly muted the TV, plunging the whole room into silence. 

“Stiles, I am so, so sorry,” Erica said, drawing hesitantly away from him. “If I hurt you at all. . . . God, you looked so—”

“I’m fine,” Stiles interrupted, not unkindly. “Yeah, it sucked not knowing what was happening. But shit happens. Besides,” he said, offering her a shy smile, “I’m completely ruined of any and all intimidation you can dish out now that . . . at least, I hope that we’re. . . .”

Her face split into a feral grin. “Yeah, we’re friends now.” They ended the conversation by bumping shoulders amiably. Derek could see others around him offer a similar pat on the shoulder or a touch on the arm in solidarity: Lydia, Allison, Isaac, and Boyd. Even Jackson’s jaw clenched in a non-hostile manner.

“I’m afraid I must offer my own apology,” Peter spoke up, and all the teens snapped their heads toward his side of the room. Derek could feel Stiles’s gaze flick briefly over him before it slid coldly to Peter. “The crowd outside is not dispersing, and I’m afraid that until then, for security reasons, nobody is going to be getting in or out. We can let you stay the night, and hopefully the fracas will die down in the morning. You’ll be perfectly safe here.”

“Is that right.” Stiles stood up from the sofa as the blanket slid from his shoulders. He leveled Peter with an electric look. “This morning you said you would handle everything, and I trusted you,” he accused.

“I did,” Peter said calmly, “and I meant it.”

But Stiles was on a roll. “You said you’d keep everything quiet until you guys figured out what would be done. You said the last thing we needed was the media to find out.” Then he gestured at the TV, where the screen mutely played a repeat of the broadcast they watched before, Stiles’s face plastered on the screen. “But they did find out, didn’t they? And now you’re saying I can’t go home. You promised to be discreet. You promised to return my phone. And you promised that you wouldn’t try to keep me here. So excuse me if I’m not ready to believe you right now.”

Throughout this tirade, the other teens in the room looked shocked. Nobody talked to Peter like this. And the only ones who could get away with it were probably Talia and Cora, maybe Lydia. Peter had a frightening reputation. Most people, excusing some of the people in this room, were afraid of him, and rightfully so. Peter cut out problems with surgical precision.

Stiles, though, was fierce in his anger. With each new sentence, he stepped closer toward Peter, letting out his fury.

And Peter, in the face of this teenager’s badger-like display, never extinguished the twinkle in his eyes, even as he maintained a blank face instead of his signature smirk. “Is that all?” he asked.

That brought Stiles to a spluttering halt. “Is that all?” Bald defiance was still in his expression, but confusion softened out the edges.

“I don’t deny your grievances,” Peter said in a businesslike tone. “They are not unfounded, and none of this was ever my intention. In fact, I suspect a leak in my own staff, something I will make sure is swiftly dealt with.” A dark look flashed across his features at that remark, and it made Derek shiver. Who would be stupid enough to even try to cross Peter?

“But,” Peter continued, “that isn’t why you’re angry right now. Not truly the reason, at least.”

Stiles glared at the floor for a few seconds, and before he turned back to Peter, Derek once again felt those brown eyes land briefly on him. His tongue slipped out to wet his lips. When he finally spoke, this voice was hard and accusing, but it was much softer. “All I wanted was to keep them safe.”

“And by ‘them’ you mean. . . .”

“Are you investigating Melissa?” Stiles asked point blank. 

“Yes,” Peter replied.

“Why? She didn’t do anything wrong. She just took in a hyperactive amnesiac kid and gave him just as much love and care as she did her own son. Just don’t—” Stiles took in a breath. “Just don’t hurt her, please.”

Slowly, Peter lay one hand on Stiles’s shoulder, and he briefly stiffened at the touch but ultimately didn’t say anything. When Peter spoke, his cool facade was dropped, and he quietly said, “I never said I was the hero, but I’m not the bad guy here. I looked into the McCall family, yes, but only because it is my job. Now let me tell you what I learned.” Stiles’s impossibly large brown eyes met his cool blue ones. “Melissa McCall is an upstanding citizen with a full and complete record, none of which raised any red flags. People around her confirm that she is a caring mother and devoted nurse, and her boys were raised into fine young men. Despite Rafael McCall being a real piece of work,” at which Stiles let out a derisive snort, “all in all, if you couldn’t be here with us, you found your way to a good family.”

“So nothing will happen to her and Scott?” Stiles asked.

Peter flashed a dark grin. “Now you really will have my unbroken word. I will shield them as best I can. Only I—and Derek, I suppose—knew that I was even going to look into them. It looks like the McCalls haven’t been a part of the leak to the media. They aren’t suspects. I don’t plant stories. And I don’t cut corners on serious matters like these. I’ll find out what really happened. And it will be the absolute truth.”

Stiles nodded seriously. “I will accept nothing less.”

. . .

Stiles was thoroughly exhausted. He was officially ready for today to be over. Today alone he woke up with a hangover, thought he was going to be arrested, found out he was a missing prince, got swarmed by a mob of reporters, and had a panic attack.

That, and Derek had yelled at him. Stiles wasn’t usually bothered by people yelling at him. His unique brand of limitless curiosity and hyperactive charm often had him wind up in situations where people yelled at him. Heck, Jackson had chewed him out at least three times over the years until Danny finally caved and said he couldn’t hang out with both of them at the same time. Stiles could usually handle being yelled at.

But for some reason, his fight with Derek bothered him. Sure, when he first met him, he was intimidating as all hell with the murderous eyebrows and generally stormy disposition, but as he spent more time with Derek and the palace teens, Derek became all quiet nerdom and rare smiles, and Stiles had started to assume that he was more of a bark-worse-than-his-bite type of person.

Stiles probably shouldn’t have gone bursting into the guy’s room and then giving the stink eye to his girlfriend, but when Derek had turned around and laid it into him, it had definitely sucked.

Now, Stiles was sitting on Lydia’s couch, basically a pile of goo, and trying hard not to look in Derek’s corner of the room lest they accidentally make eye contact.

He couldn’t tell if the rest of the palace teens had noticed any tension between them. After Peter’s revelation that he would be forced to spend the night, Allison had come up with the idea to make it like one big slumber party hangout so he wouldn’t feel weird. He felt weird enough that people felt the need to dress up a shitty situation for his benefit, but he appreciated the thought all the same.

Everyone took the idea with enthusiasm, and before Stiles knew it, Lydia had Jackson lug out all her spare pillows and blankets and arrange them throughout her sitting room. Erica loudly proclaimed that she was officially off duty and wrestled control of the remote to browse for trashy movies to watch. And someone had ordered a special dinner to be delivered from the kitchens. One of them had the bright idea to request pizza since they couldn’t order out, and bless their hearts, but this was definitely not real pizza delivery. Instead of arriving in a cardboard box and loaded with grease, this pizza was some sort of artisanal concoction, obviously homemade and lovingly baked with high-quality ingredients.

It did feel nice, though, having people pile up on the couch and the floor while they ate food and watched something mind numbing. For a few minutes, Stiles felt like a normal teenager again, although he never quite shook the ache of homesickness. Usually movie nights on the couch were spent with Scott and Danny on either side of him. 

Of course, it was during an intermission, when Isaac and Allison had insisted on running to the kitchens to make some popcorn, that Derek finally decided to approach him. 

Stiles was at Lydia’s sink refilling his water glass when he felt a looming presence behind him. “What’s up, big guy?” Turning back, he could see that Derek’s trademark murder brows were back. If he was going to still be mad, Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to be there with him while everyone else was in the other room.

“I wanted to apologize,” Derek said.

Stiles stopped up short. “Apologize?”

“I was way out of line,” Derek said. “I made the situation worse, and I shouldn’t have come after you like that.”

Stiles crossed his arms. “No, you shouldn’t have.” He fixed Derek with his most discerning stare. The guy seemed sincere—he kept looking away, as if he half expected Stiles to refuse to forgive him—so he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “But all you had to say was you wanted to be discreet about your girlfriend. I’m no narc.”

Derek suddenly got flustered, blushing slightly. “No, that’s not—I wanted to do something for you. To prove that I trust and believe you.”

Stiles swallowed and felt a blush creep across his own face. Who talks like that? “What do you mean?”

The brows were back to their natural slanted state, but the fierceness in Derek’s eyes wasn’t directed at Stiles. “I think something really is happening here. Peter can’t find your phone? Peter doesn’t just misplace things. He’s more careful than that.”

“You think someone took it,” Stiles said.

Derek nodded. “And I’m worried it might have to do with the fire eight years ago. You want to look into it, right? Whatever you want to find out, I want to help you.”

“You really mean that.” Stiles regarded Derek in a new light. He didn’t have to do anything. Heck, he didn’t have to believe in Stiles’s conspiracy theories. Stiles was sure there were plenty of official investigations into the fire eight years ago. The queen doesn’t just die suddenly without everyone trying to look into what happened. Whatever case was made at the time was probably closed or marked as unsolved.

He didn’t have to do anything, but here he was, offering to help Stiles dig.

“I want to look into the night of the fire,” Stiles said, searching for any hesitance in Derek’s eyes. “And since I’m stuck here, I have a unique opportunity to find a resource that I can’t find anywhere else in the whole country.”

Derek’s face pulled in confusion, and Stiles was starting to wonder whether every instance of murder brows he’d seen were really just confused brows. “You want to look through records in the library?”

Stiles shook his head. What a beautiful soft, secret nerd. “No. There has to be a witness, right? Someone who works or lives at the palace who was close to the Stilinski wing that night. I want to talk to them. Maybe it might jostle something in the old noggin.” He knocked on his temple for good measure.

Derek pulled another face, and Stiles could tell he was pondering something serious. “Other than, well, you, there’s only one person who was at the scene and survived. It’s just that—”

“Just what? Derek, are they still here? I want to talk to them.”

Derek’s face was hesitant, open. He looked kind of sad. “Yeah, they’re here. I’m just not sure you’re going to like it.”

. . .

Derek had led Stiles away from the group and back through the maze of palace hallways. He didn’t say much. Well, in Stiles’s experience, Derek Hale never said much. But Derek’s mood as he led him across the building and up several floors of stairs was almost somber. The only words he said to Stiles were, “We’re going to the north tower,” and the occasional, “Watch your step,” and, “It’s not much farther.”

Stiles wasn’t sure where he expected Derek to lead him. The north tower of the palace wasn’t as homey as the Hale or Martin wings, and it lacked the opulence of the government or tourist sections. It had an elevator, but Derek just walked past it up flights and flights of stairs with some brief explanation that the elevator usually required a key.

As they neared what Stiles assumed was the top, the walls were stark white, almost industrial-looking. It reminded him of the area around the kitchens but less commonly traveled, more pristine. He didn’t know if this area was not often used or if it was because it was after sundown, but they didn’t encounter any palace staff on their way up. Some of the heavy wooden doors with little plexiglass windows reminded him of his high school. Or the hospital where Melissa worked.

It wasn’t until after they pushed through a double set of swinging doors that proclaimed “private medical wing” in red blocky letters that Stiles realized why this reminded him of Beacon Memorial. This was the palace’s hospital. 

Stiles tugged on Derek’s arm to bring them both to a halt. “Wait, Derek, what is this? Are we even allowed to be up here?”

Before Derek could answer, a harsh voice called out, “Of course you’re not. Get out.” A thin, dark-haired man peered suspiciously at them through his square glasses frames. Judging by his spot behind a large desk and the white lab coat he wore, Stiles had to guess this guy was in charge of the medical wing. And he did not look happy to be receiving visitors.

Derek addressed the man. “Harris, we’re here to visit—”

“That’s _Dr_. Harris,” he interrupted. “And has someone authorized you to be here? You need a form stating who you’re visiting and for what reason.”

“There’s only one person all the way up here,” Derek replied, gesturing toward a closed door nearby. Just as he said, it was the only door that had patient records clipboarded to it; the others in the hallway stood dark and empty. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem if we left after a few minutes.”

Harris drew himself up and glared disdainfully at Derek. “I am in charge here. And I don’t care who your parents are.”

“Then do you care who _his_ parent is?” Derek shot back, indicating Stiles. He started arguing with Harris, who refused to back down from his haughty demeanor.

His parent? Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek was driving at. He’d used the present tense, but he couldn’t imagine Derek could be referring to Melissa in this conversation. But he also couldn’t be talking about Queen Claudia, whose death they currently were investigating. He thought Derek was taking him to meet someone who’d been in the Stilinski wing the night of the fire and—

When it hit Stiles, he gasped sharply for breath and swiveled back to the one occupied room. Through the small window embedded in the door, the room beyond was dark, but he could barely make out a silhouette seated in the bulky outline of a wheelchair. The figure was small and hunched, but the shoulders were broad. A man.

Derek had pointed out Stiles and asked Harris whether he cared who Stiles’s parent _is_. His parent. A man sitting alone in a dark room. Someone who had been there during the fire. A man. His parent. His _father_. 

Derek had brought him to the top of this palace tower to see King Consort John. _Stiles’s own father_. 

Stiles backed away from that room. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and ended up making a pathetic gurgling sound, but it didn’t matter. Derek was still arguing with Harris behind the desk and hadn’t noticed.

Stiles wasn’t ready to face this. This was too much too soon. He was freaked out enough when he’d been told he was freaking Mieczysław Stilinski, when Queen Claudia was a distant idea and a much-too-familiar painting hanging in the library. But King John was apparently still alive. This tangible, living remnant of the life he’d forgotten. His _father_ was right there.

And Stiles was too much of a coward to face him right now. So he ran.

Stiles bolted back through the swinging double doors they’d entered through, choosing to ignore the worried and disgruntled shouts from Derek and Harris respectively.

Stiles ran down hallways and stairs. He didn’t care if he was going the wrong direction. He faintly registered Derek running to catch up behind him, so he knew he wouldn’t get hopelessly lost. He just needed to get anywhere that wasn’t that hospital room. He felt suffocated by the palace walls, and he needed some air.

It wasn’t until he found an open balcony that he stopped, gasping for breath for reasons beyond just running down like ten flights of stairs. Under the stars and moon in the sky he could make out the glittering skyline of Beacon Hills in the distance. He sank onto his haunches right then and there and drew his knees up to his chest.

“Stiles!” Derek finally caught up to him, and he wasn’t even out of breath. The guy obviously worked out regularly.

“I just—” Stiles bit out before his voice broke. “I just need a minute.” He stared resolutely out toward Beacon Hills. He missed the McCall house so much.

Stiles expected Derek to call him back inside, or demand to tell him what was bothering him. But instead he felt the solid weight of Derek’s presence as he quietly sat next to him on the balcony floor.

They sat like that for several minutes. Neither saying a word. Derek was silently gazing at the starry sky above them. And Stiles was slowly pulling himself back together.

“You know,” Derek said quietly, and his voice sounded so gentle in that moment, “Cora still sometimes asks me what I remember of our father.”

Stiles felt himself tense beside Derek, but Derek didn’t pay him any mind as he continued. 

“I don’t think Cora ever really does the math because she was still a baby when he got sick, but I was only around six. All my stories come from Peter, and he is the worst at blowing weird details out of proportion.” He chuckled quietly to himself at some private joke.

“My father wasn’t a Beacon native, and his parents supposedly never understood why he took my mother’s family name. Where they’re from, they didn’t know that if you married a Hale, you changed your name to Hale. Or Argent, Martin, or Stilinski.

“Supposedly his family never visited him here after he married my mother. I don’t really know why. But I do know that he never let anything get him down. Back then, it didn’t feel like we were a royal family living in a palace. Wherever my father was, there was warmth and fun. I remember him tickling Laura until she was shrieking with laughter. I remember him kissing my mother after she had a hard day meeting with the council. She wasn’t the queen at the time, and there was none of the important stuff all that entailed. We were just . . . us.”

Stiles let Derek talk. He didn’t even feel pressured to respond. He could tell that Derek just wanted to share this and let Stiles come to his own conclusions in his own time. The picture Derek was painting of his whole family sounded nice. Derek’s early childhood was obviously filled with love.

“Despite the short time we had with him,” Derek said, “I think I got off better than my sisters. Cora never knew him, and it eats away at her sometimes. And Laura often gets peppered with questions about how she looks just like him, and it only reminds her of what she lost.” He trailed off into silence.

“Let me guess,” Stiles said, petulantly staring off into the distance. “If you had the chance to miraculously see him again, you’d do anything to have even just five minutes.”

“Well, yeah,” Derek said, and Stiles could hear the shrug in his voice. “But I didn’t say any of that to guilt trip you into talking to yours.”

“Why did you say that then?”

Derek sighed. “You’ve found out some crazy secrets today.” And no, that wasn’t exactly news. “But I know that it’s got to be made even harder because it feels like total strangers are discussing your life around you.” He paused. “And I know what it’s like to find out things you didn’t even know about yourself just casually discussed on the evening news. I know it’s a lot.”

Stiles finally turned to face Derek, and he was still gazing out at the night sky. The look in his eyes was contemplative, and Stiles began to wonder what resided in the deep recesses of Derek Hale’s mind; it was something he never even considered before that moment.

Derek had grown up among the royal families at the palace, and Stiles knew from his peers how much news coverage was about the least important tidbits of their personal lives, trying to squeeze any detail out of even the most innocuous piece of footage. He remembered the blowup over the internet about Cora and Lydia’s relationship and how it had been the main topic of discussion on the radio every day for a month. He remembered girls at his school pouring over magazines, trying to put together a look that emulated Allison’s fashion sense. He remembered hearing clips from health and fitness shows that tried to guess at Derek’s workout routine and how they would discuss the ramifications of every perceived pound of weight gain or loss.

For the better part of that day, Stiles had been hearing how much of a shame it was that Queen Claudia had so strictly kept Prince Mieczysław from the limelight, because then someone would have very quickly discovered that Stiles was the missing prince. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood what she might have been trying to protect him from, especially after the panic he’d felt seeing his own picture plastered over the news. 

Maybe her choices made it near impossible to figure out what happened to him, but he got it. This would just be another set of complicated feelings he would have about this woman who was his mother. But that wasn’t the exact issue at hand, was it.

“Ever since I can remember, I’ve wondered who my parents were,” Stiles said softly. “Anyone would be insanely curious. I figured pretty quickly that something must have happened to them.” He breathed deep and closed his eyes, psyching himself up to approach one of his biggest insecurities. “I mean, what parents don’t go looking for their missing kid, right? I didn’t forget everything about them for a reason, did I?” 

He sniffed and could already feel hot tears in the corners of his eyes. “I guess some deep dark part of me kind of hoped that there was a reason. That they weren’t alive and that’s why I was all alone.” He could feel several sobs wrack through his chest, and if he said anything else, he wouldn’t be able to keep them silent. 

Stiles felt like such a terrible person. He’d spent the better part of eight years practically hoping that something awful had happened to his parents only because it would have eased his fear of abandonment. Meanwhile, Derek ached for his missing parent every year he couldn’t be with him. Meanwhile, Scott actually did have to deal with that sense of abandonment from his own father. 

And now here was Stiles. He got everything he secretly hoped for, and he felt no better for it. It should have been a miracle that his father was really alive. But it was just another thing that felt like too much for him to face.

Derek said nothing, even as Stiles shuddered through his breathing, taking big gulps of the outside air. Instead, Stiles felt a heavy warm arm drape itself across his shoulders. And rather than duck out of Derek’s touch, he leaned further into it. For several moments he just let Derek hold him as the two of them sat silently on the floor of the balcony, and gazed up at the stars.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189357822@N05/50268839816/in/photostream/)

. . .

Derek never felt he was any good at expressing emotions. His sisters constantly gave him crap about his “resting bitch face.” He could count on one hand the number of people who have ever trusted him with their insecurities or woes. Even in the best of circumstances, like Laura’s wedding, he often felt out of place and robotic when a situation called for some form of emotionality.

But here, sitting with Stiles, with one arm over his shoulders as he pretended not to hear him cry, it didn’t feel so weird. He was sad that Stiles was upset. But he didn’t mind being the person who would try to comfort him.

For once, he felt confident that just sitting there and not saying anything was the right thing to do. He just gazed at the stars, felt Stiles’s gentle warmth pressing against his side, and did nothing but think.

After a while, Stiles’s quiet sobs turned into slight shudders. And after that, he slowly grew still and relaxed.

Still, Derek didn’t move or say a word until after a while, Stiles finally lifted his head and said, “I guess it’s getting late.”

Derek nodded. It had gotten fully dark hours ago, and the others were probably wondering what had happened to them.

So the two of them stood back up on legs a little numb from sitting on the hard balcony floor. 

Stiles took a quick ragged breath. “Sorry, I wasn’t even paying attention when I ran out of there. Did I get us to the complete wrong end of the palace?”

Derek looked around. “You know, we’re actually not too far away from Lydia’s. You have some pretty good directional instincts.” That, or maybe some of his old life at the palace wasn’t too far below the surface after all. Even at ten years old, he must have had at least some working sense of how to get around when he lived here.

Judging by the wry expression on Stiles’s face, he might have wondered the same thing. “Well, uh, we should go?”

And they did. Derek had gotten Stiles back to the palace teens, who had all given the two of them weird looks and then promptly decided it was time to separate and go to bed. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, who worked as full-time staff at the palace, retired to their respective dormitories. Jackson, who hung out a lot but technically didn’t live there, was allowed to shelter with Lydia in the Martins’ wing since nobody was allowed to enter and leave until the media parked outside dispersed.

And Peter had already apparently figured out accommodations for Stiles. He was given a suite usually reserved for visiting foreign dignitaries and told that it was one of the safest places to be. 

Stiles had looked exhausted when he was shown the room, nearly swaying on his feet, so he didn’t put up a fight. He just gave Derek a tired wave and a small smile as he closed the door behind him.

Now, Derek was back in his own rooms in the Hale wing, sitting on his bed and reflecting on the crazy day he’d had. The morning had seemed so ordinary, even if he’d started grumpy and off his schedule, but he should have taken that as an indication that things wouldn’t get back on track. The shock of Stiles being Prince Mieczysław had worn off a long time ago. There was no doubt in his mind that Stiles was the missing former crown prince.

But what did Derek think of Stiles as a person? He’d talked himself into hating the kid when he first met him, and Derek had to admit that vomiting all over his shoes had been off-putting. But as he spent more time with him, he got to know Stiles as a person—when he saw Stiles discussing his favorite TV shows with passion in his eyes, when he saw Stiles fearlessly stand up to Jackson’s meanspirited insults, when he saw Stiles’s curiosity alight with hard questions about what happened to the Stilinskis the night of the fire, and when he saw Stiles struggle with coming to terms with his real identity. Stiles was a million and one things wrapped up in a wildfire of wit and gumption, but Derek had a feeling that this daylong glimpse he’d viewed was only scratching the surface of the person Stiles was. Stiles was fascinating, and Derek couldn’t help but feel he wanted to know more.

But Derek kind of wished that didn’t make him feel so weird, and he didn’t know what to do with that information. Did he want to get to know Stiles more? Did he want to spend more time with him? And if he did, did it matter?

When a soft knock sounded at his door, Derek leaped from the bed to answer it. No one ever visited him so late at night, and he could only think of one new person he’d met who might come knocking on his door.

But when he opened up, he was actually surprised to see Kate on the other side.

“You know I hate it when you leave me waiting, sweetie,” she said with an arched brow. 

Derek opened and closed his mouth, looking for the right words. He should probably apologize, even if he didn’t know what for. But then her face cracked into a stunning smile, and she slid past him and into his room.

. . .

That night, Stiles dreamed of fire.

It started innocently enough, rather reminiscent of the night before. He saw the gentle smile and the white hands he always associated with his mother. This time, though, the flesh between them was no longer blurred, and he could fully see the face of his mother, Queen Claudia.

She was kneeling down to look him in the eye, and her smiling face was more familiar than Melissa’s. Big strong arms gripped him about the waist and hoisted him up high, and soon Stiles saw his mother’s smiling face pointed up at him as he clung to broad shoulders he couldn’t see, yet he felt sublimely safe nonetheless. 

Her dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and she was wearing casual clothes that were so far removed from the queenly imagery he’d encountered in history books that he had to wonder if this was something that really happened. Him, his mother, and his father. A private moment caught between a happy family.

The scene blurred, and the image of his mom faded away, to be replaced with a red and orange glow that surrounded him. Flames licked up at him, and he tried to shy away, but the arms around his waist tightened their hold into near suffocation. 

He heard a child cry, “Mom!”

A man replied. “I’ll get her, but please, please stay here,” the voice begged.

He wanted to follow, but the vice grip around him made it difficult to breathe, let alone move. He reached out, feeling the intense heat of the fire.

Then a shadowed figure rose out of the flames and loomed over him. Stiles felt scared. He tried to call for his mom.

Then he was falling. Something hit his head.

And Stiles startled awake with a deep gasp.

Stiles lay there, gasping for breath as his pulse slowly lowered back down to normal levels. He was still in the palace. Today had happened. He reached for the digital clock that had been on the side table. It was 2:00 in the morning. Never mind. Yesterday had happened.

He tried to go back to sleep. He really needed the rest after the emotional roller coaster. But his mind was going a million miles per second, parsing through his dream and all the questions he had about the fire. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d truly been there during the fire. And if he had, what happened? What did he see in the Stilinski wing that night?

Stiles realized that there was no way he was going back to sleep right now, so with a groan he sat up and put on his shoes and socks, leaving on the pajamas Peter had scrounged up for him. Maybe a little walk through the palace halls would help clear his mind. He wouldn’t wander too far.

Stiles silently opened the door to his suite, and although he half-expected to see guards stationed just outside like some sort of medieval movie, he was relieved to see no one there. 

He turned a couple corners, and when he thought he recognized the general area, he considered finding his way to the library again. If pressed, he would have said it was a mental exercise to see if he was getting the hang of navigating the place, but maybe not so deep down inside he kind of wanted to look at that painting of Queen Claudia again. Her image there was the most similar to the image he had in his head. The details he had were just different enough that he felt like they were really his own. But he kind of wanted to make sure.

As he found the doors that would lead him to the library, he saw that they were cracked open and there was lamp light glowing from within. He approached cautiously, not sure if he was allowed to be wandering around, and as he got closer, he heard two distinctively familiar voices.

“It’s really not as dire as you think.” That was Deaton. Stiles would recognize that soft voice anywhere.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game here,” said a female voice as Stiles pressed himself against the library door. Was that—Ms. Morrell, the school counselor? Stiles didn’t even think the two knew each other. “If our involvement gets out before it’s discovered who—”

“It’s not _our_ safety I’m worried about,” Deaton interrupted. “Stiles has been thrust into something dangerous indeed, but I think you underestimate the boy.”

“And I think you overestimate your own control over the situation,” she said.

“My point is that at least he’s being watched over right now. I have concerns that more vulnerable parties might receive some backlash from our arsonist.”

“You mean the father.”

Stiles couldn’t see inside, but he could almost hear the nod in Deaton’s reply. “I sometimes fear it might be too late.”

Stiles had enough. Mind reeling, he backed silently away from the library and tried to slip across a couple turns in the corridor before he could be seen.

Deaton and Morrell. How did they know each other? And why were they talking about him like that? They mentioned an arsonist. Did they know something about the fire eight years ago? He thought back to what he knew about them. Deaton had been a fixture in the McCall household for as long as he could remember, and he’d heard from Melissa that they were family friends before that. And Morrell was the school counselor. He personally hadn’t had much one-on-one time with her, but she was always at the school, and he remembered her practically running through the halls when Peter had shown up less than a day ago. Had she been on her way to tell Deaton about it? What were the chances that these two seemingly random people on the periphery of his life might know something more than what they were telling?

But try as he might, Stiles couldn’t figure out what exactly they were talking about, at least not without all the pieces. They said he was in danger, but they didn’t seem to imply that the threat came from them.

Stiles stopped when he came upon a familiar balcony, the place where he and Derek had sat with each other only a few hours prior.

No. Deaton hadn’t said Stiles himself was necessarily in danger. But the two of them did imply something about his father. They must have been referring to something to do with King John. 

Stiles looked around. It was the early hours of the morning. The palace halls were dark. There was no one around. He was starting to get his bearings around the palace, and he felt like he could retrace his steps back up to the north tower from here.

The more he thought about it, the more he knew that something wasn’t right. He didn’t know what Deaton and Morrell were talking about. But it had to be something to do with King John and the fire, and he wanted to find out.

. . .

It felt worse now that Stiles was so close. 

When Derek had brought him to see King John, Stiles had freaked out. He didn’t know if he was necessarily afraid of the man who was supposed to be his dad, but something had twisted in his gut asking awful questions. Like, what if he didn’t recognize Stiles? Or what if he never wanted to see him again?

Sneaking into the hospital wing had proven almost too easy. That grumpy Harris wasn’t anywhere to be seen. In fact, no one was around. Every room in that wing was empty. All except one room.

Stiles stood frozen outside that room. Through the small window, he could see all the lights were off except for one soft-lit lamp, which cast a pale glow across the room’s occupant. Stiles could make out the general silhouette of the man inside. He was lying down on the hospital-grade bed. On his back. Not moving. Almost unnaturally flat.

It felt wrong to be here. Stiles must have been intruding. It felt like he was intruding. King John had some kind of refuge here, right? He was by himself for a reason.

But Deaton’s words were echoing around Stiles’s head, and if King John was in danger for any reason, intimidating father figure or not, Stiles had to find out for sure. So Stiles took a deep, wet breath, and before his resolve could crumble, he pushed open the door and entered the room. 

Inside it was unnaturally still. Stiles was torn between being as silent as possible so no one would know he was here or making at least a little noise to see if King John awoke. He drew up to the side of the bed.

He immediately shrunk back in alarm. Pale blue eyes stared up at the ceiling, and once Stiles’s heartbeat calmed down enough to assess the situation, he could tell that there was not much of a spark of life there. He couldn’t even be sure he was even really awake.

Stiles saw some notes on the bedside table, probably left behind by that Harris guy because they looked like they were keeping tabs on King John’s health. Heart pounding, he read serious words like _coma_ , _stasis_ , and _unresponsive_ sprinkled throughout. Stiles read on, not sure he could believe what he was seeing. According to the notes, all of the former king consort’s injuries from the fire were healed and there was nothing wrong with him physically. But for the last eight years this man had lain in this lonely tower in a near comatose state.

Stiles gazed back down at the man in the bed. Sure enough, he could see scarring across his face and some exposed parts of his chest and arms. The flesh was an uneven ripple of scar tissue, likely sustained from the severe burns in the fire.

But as Stiles continued to look, he wanted to see past the tragedy of those scars and maybe try to feel whether the man beneath could really have once been his father.

John did not look like the king consort of a nation. His hair was a short-cut sandy brown, almost graying in some areas around his temple. And though his face was currently a mask of neutral vacancy, the parts of his face that weren’t scarred by the fire were rough and lined, revealing many past years of living in the sun and frequent laughter.

His face looked comforting. Stiles could swear that just by looking at him, something in his gut felt almost settled. Was this a response to something familiar in his eyes? Had Stiles once felt safe in this man’s arms?

Stiles absentmindedly reached out one hand, and with trembling fingers he lightly brushed against the limp hand folded on the man’s own stomach. He half-expected it to feel cold, like a corpse, but no. The man’s hand was rough and warm and pulsed with flowing life.

When he found the strength to look away again, Stiles pored through the notes with renewed energy. Did the fire really leave him like this? If he was physically fine, why was he unresponsive? How had Stiles gotten out when John and Claudia hadn’t? He wanted to find answers to everything here, but these were medical notes. He didn’t recognize half the terminology used, just the name of one particular medication over and over. It had more consonants than the name he’d been born with.

Normally Stiles would look up some of these things on his phone or laptop, but since he had access to neither, he had to act somehow. So without thinking, he gathered up the entire folder and pulled it to his chest like he half-expected someone to come out of the shadows and slap it out of his hands.

He hurried to the door, but before he left he turned and once more looked at the man lying in the hospital bed.

“I will find out what happened to us,” he promised. Then he left.

. . .

Stiles’s mind was reeling as he descended from the hospital wing tower. He clutched the folder of King John’s medical notes tightly to his chest. Less than a day ago he would have feared lifetime imprisonment for stealing the medical records of a royal family member, but now he had other worries on his mind.

He wanted to immediately try to discern what the notes were really saying about the man’s medical state and whether it really was “too late” as Deaton had feared.

Honestly, he knew Deaton part-time ran his own veterinary clinic. He might understand some of the medical jargon and be willing to help Stiles figure it out. But Stiles also wasn’t sure if he was a good person to confide in. Stiles thought he knew the man, but he was never aware he was so connected with the palace, and Deaton seemed to know something more than he was letting on. That, plus the conversation he had with Ms. Morrell left more than a few questions bouncing around Stiles’s mind.

Stiles stopped his progress back toward the library. No. He couldn’t be sure of Deaton’s motives just yet, and he wasn’t ready to confide something so important to the man.

Briefly at a loss for what to do, Stiles looked around. He knew he needed to get someone’s help with this. He either needed someone who could help him or a way to do the research himself. 

But only one face popped into his mind when he thought of someone who could help. Someone who had actively promised to help him look into the fire. Someone with murder brows on display yet a surprisingly soft hidden side.

And, now that he was near the library, he knew exactly how to get to his private rooms.

Stiles changed directions and veered toward where he knew Derek lived. Derek might judge him for the minor thievery, but he was the one who took Stiles to see King John in the first place. He would help him out, or at least let Stiles use his computer. And Stiles wouldn’t think too hard about how late it was or what happened the last time he entered his room.

Stiles finally found the correct door and, steeling himself with a deep breath, he raised his hand to knock, but a noise from within had him freeze before it could land.

He could hear a faint feminine chuckle from inside. Derek wasn’t alone in his room. His girlfriend, Kate, was in there, and of course Stiles should have known that they must have spent time together. But somehow, for some reason, the thought of her in there with him made a nervous knot form in his throat.

Stiles backed away from the door. Suddenly the lateness of the hour seemed ridiculous to him. There was no way that Derek would want to see anyone right now, much less him. He had his girlfriend, and they should enjoy their time together.

Stiles just wished that the very thought wouldn’t make him feel so lonely.

He bit back a noise of frustration and turned around to make his way back to his borrowed room, when he found his path blocked by two people.

“Stiles,” Lydia said by way of greeting. She and Cora were still wearing their sleepwear, although Stiles wasn’t sure he could necessarily compare the two when Lydia’s hair was artfully pulled back into a bun and her pajamas looked like they were straight out of a teen movie, while Cora looked like she’d thrown on a ratty sweatshirt and some old basketball shorts. The two of them were holding hands and staring at him.

Stiles just stood there like a deer caught in the headlights. It’s no big deal. They just found him out in the middle of the night. Clutching a folder of stolen documents to his chest. Right outside Derek’s rooms. 

Cora, who pointedly looked between Stiles’s nervous face and the door to her brother’s room, instead stepped forward to introduce herself. “Stiles, right? I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Cora.”

Stiles swallowed and tried to adopt a casual expression, but he was afraid he came off manic instead. “Yeah, right, um. I know who you are.” He tapped his fingers nervously.

Cora grinned at Lydia. “See? I told you I’m the cooler sibling. My reputation already precedes me.”

Lydia just rolled her eyes in reply, but when she shrewdly eyed Stiles’s nervous twitches, she said, “You know, we were just heading to the kitchens for a midnight snack. Want to come with?”

Stiles thought about refusing and making some excuse about how tired he was, but Cora just grabbed his arm and started steering him in that direction. “Yes, please join us. We’re so bored we can’t sleep.” So Stiles had no choice but to go along with them.

The kitchens at night were pretty similar to the kitchens in the middle of the afternoon. No one was around, and Lydia and Cora immediately made themselves at home. Lydia got the lights while Cora dug through the cabinets. Stiles seated himself at the counter, and soon he was joined by the other two laden with cereal and milk.

Stiles took the offered cereal bowl, and as Lydia and Cora helped themselves, Cora dived right into conversation.

“So Stiles, what were you doing outside my brother’s room?”

Stiles immediately choked on the spoon he’d just brought to his mouth and spluttered for a few seconds before he stammered, “Nothing! I don’t even know where he—was that Derek’s room?”

Lydia hummed, and Cora raised one eyebrow. Wow, those things were powerful; expressive eyebrows must run in the family.

Stiles drew one hand across his face and said, “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to talk, but he was—it wasn’t a good time.” God, he felt like such a moron.

Cora snorted. “Even if my brother is a dork who loves his sleep, I’m sure he would have been fine if you were the one who interrupted.”

Stiles stared down at his cereal and tried not to think about what he really would have been interrupting.

Probably sensing that she’d somehow made Stiles uncomfortable, Cora took on a softer expression. “But really. Derek doesn’t usually take to people so fast. Heck, it took him weeks before he warmed up to Boyd, and Boyd is like the ideal person to handle Derek.” She snorted again, which prompted a playful jab in the ribs from Lydia. “Point is, you’re totally my brother’s type.”

Now it was Stiles’s turn to snort. “I doubt that,” he said, hoping the slight blush on his cheeks wasn’t noticeable. 

“Oh, and what do you think his type is?”

Stiles so did not want to have this conversation, but Cora’s combative nature was pushing him to respond in kind. “I don’t know. How about tan, blonde, sinister yet dazzling grin, a little older maybe.”

Lydia’s brows drew together, but Cora merely smirked. “Wrong on all counts. What kind of person do you even take him for?”

Stiles huffed. Even if Cora was being rhetorical, he had a ready answer. “He’s got that quintessential bad boy look down, but his bark is definitely worse than his bite.” Cora scoffed in agreement. “He’s infuriatingly quiet, and when you do manage to get him to talk, he’s either dazzling you with obscure superhero trivia or showing you around the library with this soft look in his eyes.”

Then Stiles breathed a deep sigh. “And sometimes, sometimes, it’s all about what he doesn’t say. When he knows exactly how to sit next to you and offer no judgment, only comfort. And then without saying much he makes it clear that he totally understands the snowstorm of emotions swirling through your head, even when you yourself didn’t know how to even start untangling all those loose threads.” He trailed off. Okay, maybe a few of those points were actually _his_ type.

Lydia and Cora exchanged a knowing look. “That’s what I thought,” Cora said. “Seriously, though.” Cora’s eyes were wide with sincerity. “He may never have been good with communication, but lately people have been having a hard time looking past his anger, and that’s not him. He’s been acting like an insecure grouch lately, and I wish I knew why. But after spending a day with you, it’s felt like the old Derek came back.”

Stiles stared at her in shock. No way, he didn’t do anything. He just appeared out of the blue with his weird problems that belong in some cheesy soap opera, and Peter foisted him onto Derek’s responsibilities. Sure, Stiles saw that softer side of Derek at the library and then on the balcony. And Derek had proven to be an excellent sounding board.

But Stiles didn’t do anything.

“So what’s that then?” Lydia asked, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.

Stiles placed one protective hand over the folder of medical notes. He didn’t know if he was ready to share the whole story with the two of them just yet, but maybe this was an opportunity to discover something important.

After a moment’s hesitation, he flipped to the name of King John’s medication and, butchering the pronunciation, asked, “I’m trying to figure out what this is.”

Lydia perked up instantly. “Wait, do you mean—?” and she pronounced it flawlessly. Cora sported a small proud smile.

“Wait, you know it? Is it a standard drug for treating someone in a coma?”

Lydia’s eyes flashed. “No. It’s a barbiturate. If you want someone to wake up from a coma or a near-comatose state, it’s the last thing you want to give them. In fact, it’s used to medically induce one.”

Stiles suddenly felt lightheaded. He shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his cereal bowl in his mad scramble. “I have to go,” he said in a shaky voice.

“Wait,” Cora caught him around the arm before he managed to tip over sideways. “What’s going on?” But a gentle word from Lydia made her let him go.

Stiles scrambled out of the kitchen, and as he left he called over his shoulder, “I’m not sure yet.”

. . . 

Hours later, the sun had risen, and Stiles didn’t get another minute of sleep. Instead he had been pacing the length of his room, biting his thumbnail, and periodically flipping through the medical notes. Everything from the last twenty-four hours was bouncing around inside his head.

He was absolutely convinced that the fire from eight years ago was started deliberately. No matter which way he looked at it, none of this seemed like coincidence. Queen Claudia was dead. Stiles had lived anonymously with the McCalls. And King John had been kept in a fake-induced near coma. If one’s an incident and two’s a coincidence, then three was a pattern. The only problem he had was determining who, how, and why.

The biggest result from the fire was disrupting the royal line of succession. If the queen was killed and her only heir missing, then logic would dictate that the one with the most to gain was the successor. Except, any one of the royal families could have taken the throne; Queen Talia was chosen by the council and parliament. He’d heard that her policies were not substantially different from Queen Claudia’s, and the quality of life for her and her children didn’t change much except maybe put them more in the spotlight. While he figured Peter was capable of orchestrating something like that, his position was completely unaltered and he had no need to.

But if this was all about royal succession, why keep King John around? Stiles figured that Harris was the one writing his prescriptions, but what did he get out of it? Besides being a special brand of asshole, he didn’t seem to have any particular power in the new world order. Instead, he pretty much shackled himself to the same patient for life.

Stiles slowed his pacing and clutched his head. It hurt like a stabbing pain in his temple. He should have tried to get more sleep, but his dream kept replaying in his head. Fire. Shouting. Being told to run.

What if it wasn’t just a dream? What if he was starting to remember something from that night?

And then it hit him. To whomever had started the fire, _he_ was a wrench in their plan. They probably didn’t expect Stiles to show up after all these years, or at least, they probably hoped he wouldn’t. There were now two survivors of the fire in the palace. What if he or King John had seen something that night?

Stiles’s heartbeat skittered up a few paces. He remembered Deaton’s words. _I sometimes fear it might be too late_.

What if it wasn’t too late for King John? What if there was a way to help his father?

Stiles made up his mind. He had to do something. If they had been waiting years for King John to wake up but someone had medically ensured that he never would, then Stiles would follow the logical path: disrupt the medication. So he pulled back on his clothes from the day before and once again set out in search for the hospital tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment below to contribute to my external motivation fund. It doesn't really alter the outcome of the story, but it does give me a little bubbly feeling inside.
> 
> One chapter left, guys!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another double moodboard chapter thanks to Purpleyin! You can find more of their work on their [AO3 page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin) and their [Tumblr](https://purpleyin.tumblr.com/).

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189357822@N05/50269012062/in/photostream/)

It was surprisingly simple to sneak back into the hospital tower before the rest of the palace woke up for the day. A part of him felt more than a little guilty, like he was betraying Melissa’s entire career or something. But he was pretty sure that falsely inducing a medical coma to keep a man quiet was probably a worse insult to the institution of nursing. 

Now, the disrupting-the-medication part had Stiles more than a little nervous, and he was honestly flabbergasted on how to proceed. King John lay in his bed staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Stiles stood over him, desperately trying to make sense of the IV tubing sprouting from his arm yet scared to death that he might accidentally do more harm than good.

It was while he was standing there, frozen in place, when someone entered the room behind him.

“I wondered when I might find you up here, Stiles.” It was Deaton.

“I didn’t know you and Ms. Morrell were acquainted,” Stiles answered.

Deaton stepped closer until he and Stiles were practically shoulder to shoulder. Both of them gazed at the former king consort. “I shouldn’t be surprised you were out wandering last night. You were always a curious one, even as a young child. But to answer your implied question, Marin and I don’t formally socialize. At least, my sister doesn’t believe it is mutually beneficial. So she stays away.”

“But you were both here the night of the fire.”

“What makes you say that?”

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe I finally remembered.”

There was a soft chuckle. “Marin theorized that your memories aren’t buried as deeply as many think, but if you remembered seeing us the night of the fire, you’d be asking different questions.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles turned sharply toward Deaton, but as he met his eye, his expression was placid as ever.

“I mean absolutely nothing and a great deal more besides. But that’s not the reason we’re both here right now, is it?”

Stiles bit back a snarky retort. No. He wasn’t here to trade riddles with the hardest man in the world to read. He needed someone with medical knowledge, even if he’s used to working with animal patients.

Before he could agonize over the pros and cons of letting Deaton in on what he knew, Stiles said, “Please. Help me save him.”

Deaton nodded, the mysterious twinkle in his eye replaced with absolute seriousness. “Always.” He turned back to the man lying in the bed. “I just need to figure out the method. Maybe if I can discern exactly what’s wrong, I can. . . .” He trailed off as Stiles silently shoved a now-wrinkled paper into his hands.

Deaton opened the page from Harris’s notes and let out a small surprised sound. “Of course.” He reached over to the IV bags hanging above the bed, reading each of their labels carefully. Then Stiles watched as he deftly disconnected one and then gently taped the tube back down to make it look like it was still attached.

Stiles was probably imagining it, but as soon as the medicine stopped flowing through John’s veins, Stiles could almost see the man breathe a little easier. But maybe that was just the lighter feeling in his own chest.

Stiles hated to leave John after that. Not when they might see results. And especially not if he would be alone with Harris again. But Deaton had pointed out that they didn’t want anyone to witness them there, at least not until they could figure out if John might recover. So he let Deaton escort him back out of the medical wing and down the tower steps.

By the time he heard a huge relieved shout from Erica on the other side of a hallway, Deaton had already disappeared somewhere into the bowels of the palace.

“Thank god you’re here,” Erica said as she ran to catch up. “You weren’t in your room, and I swear my life was starting to flash before my eyes if Peter found out I lost you.”

“Good morning to you too, Erica,” Stiles said sarcastically. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“None of that now.” Erica was already practically pushing him in a different direction. “We’ve got a busy day ahead. You’re to have breakfast and then it’s off to pick your wardrobe.”

“Wardrobe?”

“Yes, it’s what happens before hair and makeup. Now pick up the pace. Lydia will have both our hides if you’re late.”

Stiles spluttered. “Wait, hair and makeup?”

. . .

So Peter also hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. He’d spent the whole night concocting what he called the perfect plan to get the press to back off on the missing and found royal prince story long enough for them to get on with their lives. Or at least—in Erica’s words—a way to make them less feral over any information about Stiles.

And apparently Peter’s brilliant plan involved putting Stiles on live TV. Now, a couple hours after breakfast, after he’d been primped and powdered and pushed into wearing some weird button-down shirt, it was almost, quite literally, show time.

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s just an interview with Laura and Parrish.” Lydia had waved away the—holy crap—makeup artist and was now combing her fingers through Stiles’s hair. She had a frown of distaste, and Stiles had no clue what _she_ was offended by when it was _his_ hair getting messed with. 

“I’m not being a baby,” Stiles protested, even as he was wiggling away from her ministrations. “I have a right to be nervous. She’s next in line to be queen. The crown princess!”

“And you were once the crown prince. Honestly, Laura is just Laura.” And no, that wasn’t very helpful for easing his anxiety. 

“This is going to be live. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I forget something important?”

“Well, considering this is meant to be a casual sit-down about you and your life in Beacon Hills, I don’t see how you could get it wrong. Now please sit still!”

“That’s physically impossible at the moment,” he said through gritted teeth. Stiles was a pressurized bottle of ADHD and nerves right now, and this live interview was like adding Mentos to the mixture. He felt like he was about to jump out of his skin, and Lydia suddenly becoming anal over how his hair sat was not helping matters at all.

When the door opened behind them, Lydia threw her hands in the air and said, “That’s it. I’m done. You guys take over now.” Then she left.

When Stiles caught wind of who was replacing her, he almost fell out of his chair. It was Derek and Peter. Peter looked like his normal, slightly sinister self, but Stiles hadn’t seen Derek since the night before, and right now all he could think about was the sound of Kate’s laughter when he’d tried to visit him in the middle of the night. Derek didn’t look weird or different, but Stiles was pretty sure he was acting weird and different enough for the both of them. 

“How are you holding up?” Peter asked. But before Stiles could reply, Peter’s phone rang, and he quickly stepped aside to answer it.

“You do look a little nervous,” Derek said gently.

Stiles scoffed. “Me? Nervous? You must have it wrong because I am never nervous. That’s my reputation. The never nervous guy. That’s me.” Stiles cut himself off and winced. And they wanted to put him in front of a camera? Without editing? God, he was so screwed.

Derek merely raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, says the guy who was so not-nervous that he actually threw up.” 

There was no heat behind his words; Stiles recognized that intention. But the possibility of that scene from yesterday repeating in front of a bunch of cameras suddenly seemed way too feasible at this moment, and he was tugging on the collar of his shirt to get more air. “You don’t think that’ll happen, do you?”

“Why do you think we schedule these things _before_ lunch? Here, let me.” Derek reached forward and started unbuttoning the top couple buttons of Stiles’s shirt. Stiles tried real hard not to think about how close Derek’s face was. Or how he was leaning over him and Stiles could smell what kind of soap he used. Or how the color of his eyes danced between gray, green, and hazel in this light.

“The key,” Derek said, “is to find ways to calm yourself down. For me, the first thing I do is pay attention to my physical comfort. Nothing tight around the neck.” His hands moved from Stiles’s collar to start rolling his long sleeves up to his elbows. “And camera lights can make you sweat after a while.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles said. He was a little preoccupied with Derek’s hands brushing his forearms as he tucked the sleeves just right to keep them in place.

“And never imagine the audience in their underwear. First of all, the audience won’t be here, so it’s kind of pointless. Second of all, then you would just find yourself being watched by a bunch of people in their underwear, which only makes it weirder.”

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh at that. “So what do you recommend?”

Derek thought for a moment. “I usually pick out a specific face in the crowd—someone I know—and I try to pretend that they’re the only one watching. It also helps if they’re not interested, so it feels like what I’m doing isn’t a big deal, like it’s just another ordinary day.”

Stiles hummed in thought. “But you already pointed out that the audience won’t be there. How do I pick a face if there’s no crowd?”

“Several of us will be in the room with you to lend support. You can look at Erica or Boyd or . . . you know, you could look at me.” Did Stiles’s eyes deceive him, or did he detect a faint blush around Derek’s ears?

“And if I look at you,” Stiles paused to wet his lips, “you promise to feign disinterest for my poor fragile nerves?”

A small smile tugged at Derek’s lips. “Oh, I can look as disinterested as the best of them.”

“I’ll need proof if I’m going to put my fate in your hands.”

Derek raised both his eyebrows and shot him a look.

“Damn, you got it down pat.” Stiles couldn’t help his grin.

“Oh, are you two having a moment without me?” Peter had finished his call and looked between them expectantly.

And suddenly Derek had to look anywhere but at Stiles. Stiles might have been more offended, except he was pretty sure both of them were sporting matching blushes. Derek for probably different reasons—he had his girlfriend and all—but Stiles was definitely not the only one wishing they weren’t the subject of Peter’s sharp gaze. The man’s lips twitched into a slight smirk.

“Derek,” Peter said, “could you go check on Laura and Jordan and make sure they’re ready to go?”

Derek nodded and left the room, leaving Stiles and Peter alone. 

Once again, Peter’s sharp gaze was on Stiles. “So how are you really holding up?”

Stiles let out a shaky breath. With Derek no longer there to distract him, he could feel that tightness in his chest again. “Honestly, I don’t know if I can do this. I’ve never really had a spotlight on me, and I’m not exactly graceful under pressure.”

“And I’m guessing no quick pep talks like ‘you can do this!’ are going to help?” Peter asked sardonically.

Stiles must have really been off his game, because instead of retorting back something equally sarcastic, he simply said, “What if all of this was just some big mistake? I’m not special. Even if I was once the crown prince of this country, I’m not the same person anymore. I’m too average, used to low expectations. People are expecting some great dramatic story, but when they realize that all they got is me, they’re going to be severely disappointed.”

Peter hummed in thought then said, “Let me tell you a little story I know.”

Stiles shrugged for him to continue.

“Several years ago, back when Cora was probably seven or eight, she had a playdate with a boy her age who lived at the palace back then. They had technically skipped out on their supervisors and were playing a little rough. Normal kid games, just probably things more suited for out of doors.”

All right. Stiles wasn’t sure where Peter was going with this.

“In the midst of their game, Cora had accidentally knocked over a decorative vase. It was a priceless heirloom, a gift from a foreign dignitary a hundred years ago or some such. But she was terrified she’d get in trouble for breaking it and immediately started crying. She couldn’t be consoled.”

“Cora’s not going to beat me up for hearing this, right?” Stiles interrupted.

Peter just ignored him with a quick smirk. “However, when the adults got wind of what happened, the boy her age claimed responsibility. He said he’d broken the vase and would accept whatever punishment they thought was fitting.”

“Sounds just like an eight-year-old,” Stiles snarked.

Peter flashed him a dark smile. “I’m paraphrasing,” he said. “Anyway, when Cora tearfully confessed her crime to me, I always admired that little boy for protecting his friend. And when, ten years later, he did the exact same thing, took the fall to protect his brother and best friend when he thought it would land him in prison, I knew that boy was a real leader.”

Stiles looked up sharply, mouth agape. “You don’t mean—”

Peter’s eyes flashed with mirth. “Believe it or not, you went by Stiles back then too. Mieczysław was quite a mouthful.”

Stiles’s mind whirled. Peter had known him the whole time since he showed up at the high school yesterday. But, wait a moment. “I thought I spent my time exclusively in the Stilinski wing. How was I playing with Cora?”

“Honestly, you were a nosy little troublemaker who used to sneak around the palace when your parents weren’t looking. Granted, not everyone who saw you cavorting through the palace knew you were Claudia’s son. They usually just assumed you belonged to some staff. Luckily, no matter where you went, Claudia could always find you.” He smirked at some private memory. “I used to joke that she must have installed GPS on you.”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Stiles. He leaped to his feet. “Can I see Boyd? Or Erica? Please.”

All the warmth drained from Peter’s face. “Can you make it quick? We go live in a few minutes.”

“Yes. Please. Just—” and he lunged for the makeup artist’s tools to search for a good replacement for pen and paper. Peter’s fingers were already flying across his phone screen, but when he noticed Stiles start to use an eye pencil to write on a scrap of paper, he silently shoved a pen into his hands. Stiles took it with a grateful nod and started scribbling as fast as he could. 

Just as he was finishing up his message, the doors flung open. “Need something, boss?” Erica called out. She was followed closely by Boyd.

Stiles shoved the paper into Boyd’s hand. “I need my friend Danny to look into the information on this paper. Jackson will have his number.”

He locked eye contact with each of them and lingered on Erica. “Please, don’t hand this to anyone else. I only trust you guys, Danny, and sorta Jackson, mostly because what I’m asking Danny to find requires methods that aren’t exactly, uh . . . ,” he glanced sideways at Peter, “. . . proper. Just, can you do this?”

Both of them nodded seriously. “You can count on us,” Erica said.

Peter just typed on his phone and pretended not to listen.

Stiles expressed his sincere thanks, and then Erica and Boyd ran out of the room.

“So,” said Peter, clapping his hands together, “it’s about show time.”

. . .

Derek had dutifully checked on his sister and Parrish, and of course they were completely fine and ready to go. As the current heir to the throne and her husband, they’d done these things hundreds of times. Derek thought it was smart of Peter to not have Stiles talk to an interviewer or reporter. Instead, Laura and Parrish would do their best to make him comfortable, and they were generally warm people.

When it was time to go on, Stiles came out still looking nervous, but at least now he didn’t look like he was about to throw up and pass out. Derek wished him luck then Peter rushed Stiles to where they needed him, and the interview started.

The set was designed by Peter, of course. Laura and Parrish sat side by side on a leather loveseat while Stiles was seated on a matching chair. Derek knew from experience that this furniture looked deceptively plush—and indeed were cushioned enough to keep your feet from falling asleep—but in actuality they had excellent support to also keep you from slouching or sinking.

At the beginning, Stiles sat ramrod straight in the seat, almost to the point where Derek wondered if he wouldn’t benefit from sinking a little. But over time, as Laura and Parrish talked to him about his school and day-to-day life, Derek could see the tension slowly bleeding out of Stiles’s shoulders, and before long, he had returned to his lively, vivacious self Derek had seen the day before.

Derek knew Stiles could talk, and that he could wax poetic about any number of his many passions and interests—one does not simply forget a twenty-minute lecture where Stiles had rated his favorite Batman musical episodes in order of theatricality. But Derek should have never underestimated that Stiles’s talent was the art of casual conversation. The teen’s personality shone bright through his gift of gab.

And the few times when Stiles outright laughed—eyebrows raised in mirth, teeth flashing, and neck arched back as he gave his whole body into the act—Derek found himself mesmerized by the sight.

It wasn’t long before Stiles had a repartee going with Laura and Parrish. Derek knew his sister and brother-in-law would treat him well, but Peter’s genius really showed through when Parrish talked about how he also grew up in an average household in Beacon Hills. It further set Stiles at ease to have some common ground to talk about, especially when Parrish shared some of his own experiences from Beacon Hills High.

Off camera with Derek, Peter and Lydia were monitoring the public’s response to the livestream. Derek had never seen the man look so happy. He was practically giddy over what was being said about Stiles over both news sites and social media.

“They love him, Derek,” Peter murmured excitedly. “Half the country is smitten with this kid. And the other half are fascinated. They all want to know more about him.”

Derek hummed thoughtfully. He really couldn’t blame them. He was also fascinated by the complex individual that was Stiles. 

Then the conversation turned to yesterday’s events. 

“We understand you were just as surprised as we were to find out you were Prince Mieczysław,” Laura said a little more soberly.

The grin on Stiles’s face eased to a shy smile. “Yeah.” His fingers briefly scratched at something on his temple. “Retrograde amnesia. That’s what the doctors called it when I was first adopted by my family. We had no idea who I was or where I came from. And then eight years later a representative from the palace comes to my school.”

Laura nodded and leaned over to cover Stiles’s hand with her own. “I know there’s still a lot you are processing, even now. It can’t have been easy. The footage from the school shows that.” Peter had probably asked her to broach the subject to keep people from assuming the Hales had kidnapped him from school or something. Derek could see Peter and Lydia moving to conspire in a corner, eyes and fingers glued to their phones.

Stiles let out a half laugh. “No, it wasn’t. I think everyone was freaked out a little, but we’ve done the best we can to figure it out together. How often do you go about your normal boring life when you’re suddenly told you are literal royalty? It’s not like that gets me out of homework, right?” Once again, Stiles had them laughing. Derek was utterly charmed.

“Well, it looks like he’s got them eating out of the palm of his hand,” a derisive voice whispered from behind Derek.

Derek saw Kate leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of her. She was eyeing the interview with a strange intensity that Derek didn’t understand.

“Next thing you know,” she said, “he’ll be king of this country.”

Derek was surprised that his first reaction was _so what_ , that it wouldn’t be so bad if Stiles actually did end up ruling. He was charismatic, so, so smart, and he obviously cared about the country he grew up in. And, the fact that he had actually experienced the life of the average Beaconite, something no royal could ever boast, was definitely a plus in Derek’s book.

But Derek didn’t say all that. Instead, he said, “Stiles is actually a good person.”

Kate snorted. “Oh _sweetie_ ,” she said. “Looks like he’s got your big muscly self wrapped around his little finger. I know it’s easy to get distracted by a pretty face, but I thought I taught you better than that.”

Derek was startled. What was she saying? It was so obvious to him how wonderful Stiles was. And he told her so. But the smirk on her face seemed to curdle when he did.

“You know, he’s starting to regain his memories. He thinks he’ll soon remember the night of the fire,” Derek said, trying to convey how proud he was of Stiles. He knew that Stiles would figure out the answers to all those unanswered questions from eight years ago.

“So I don’t appreciate you saying you ‘taught me better’ when I am perfectly able to think for myself.”

Kate’s face had twisted into an unhappy snarl, and Derek had never seen her wear that expression before.

“If that’s what you _think_ , huh,” Kate said, and there was a malicious jab to her tone, “then don’t be surprised if that kid ends up usurping your family’s power. You think he’s your friend now, but as soon as he gets what he wants, he’ll drop you like yesterday’s garbage. It’s a slippery slope from the top.” And without another word, she stormed off, boot heels clacking across the floor.

Derek turned back to Stiles’s interview. Luckily no one else seemed to have noticed his argument with Kate, but Derek himself remained entirely unsettled. Sure, he’d seen her frustrated, annoyed, and even irritated. But now he was starting to think that he’d never seen her truly angry before, and he’d never known that she could be so . . . vicious.

The interview was wrapping up. When the cameras and lights finally shut off, Stiles seemed to deflate in his seat. He looked spent, but the flush in his cheeks made him look lively. Judging by what Derek had heard of the interview and judging by the ecstatic look on Peter’s face, Derek guessed the whole thing had proven to be a success. 

Stiles had stood up, and Derek could tell Laura was already walking both him and Parrish over his way, when Boyd pushed his way into the room.

Boyd walked purposefully in, but instead of going straight toward Derek, he veered at the last minute toward Peter. He murmured something quietly to him, to which Peter responded with a serious frown and then a sinister grin. He clapped Boyd on the shoulder once and then told him that he would be right there and that Erica had done a good job.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked.

Peter’s grin was devilish, but no mirth entered his eyes. “It appears we’ve found our mole,” he said.

. . .

Stiles couldn’t believe it. His hunch had been proven right.

Well, he couldn’t exactly call it a hunch. It was more like a hope that whoever had taken his phone hadn’t thought to power it down. He’d hoped that anyone looking to leak palace information to the press probably wanted to milk the device for all the information they could, which included monitoring any texts or calls that Stiles received.

And so, thanks to the first half of what he’d asked Erica and Boyd to bring to Danny, Danny was able to track the GPS in his phone right to where the thief had stashed it. Apparently the idiot had kept it under his own bed.

The guy’s name was Matt Daehler. He was young, and it took Stiles seeing him being escorted by Erica down the hall to remember that he’d seen him driving Peter’s car from the high school yesterday. He hadn’t left much of an impression on Stiles, but Stiles supposed that he’d heard enough of the conversation between Stiles and Peter to decide that he could make money selling Stiles’s story to the media.

So that certainly solved one mystery, but it still left a lot to be desired in Stiles’s mind. While he hadn’t been able to draw a logical link between the fire eight years ago and the mysterious leak, he’d hoped that finding the culprit for one might help the pieces fall in place for the other. But it turned out to be a dead end. Daehler was barely older than Stiles was. He would have been a child the night of the fire, and his position as a driver didn’t exactly pair him with many political or foreign connections that might conspire to kill a queen.

Well, at least Stiles would finally get his phone back once Peter finished having it checked for evidence or tampering—this time with the heartfelt promise that it would never leave his sight.

The palace teens were ecstatic. Erica and Boyd were jazzed to be the ones to bust Peter’s mole. And Lydia and the other royals wanted to celebrate Stiles’s successful first interview. So, hours later, after all the mess with Daehler and the leak had been dealt with, they had announced they were going to have a celebratory dinner.

Stiles didn't know how he felt about the interview. Sure, he’d been out of his mind nervous beforehand, and he was pretty sure he didn’t utterly embarrass himself during the course of it. To be honest, though, he had been so awash with adrenaline that he barely knew what happened during the interview. He had been holding onto Laura and Parrish’s calm demeanor like a lifeline. If they hadn’t been there, he didn’t know what he would have done.

He didn’t feel like he’d done anything worth celebrating, although he was completely relieved that it was over.

That is, he was relieved until Cora announced that her mother—the queen of the freakin’ country—wanted to join them. That ratcheted up his nerves all over again. How does one treat a queen? Sure, he hadn’t been exactly standing on ceremony with the palace teens, but they were all around his age. They weren’t the sovereign leader!

So that left Stiles where he was now. Dragging his feet on his way to dinner. Lydia had forced him to keep on the shirt he’d worn during the interview and threatened on pain of death that he had to keep wearing it. Considering his only other option was the clothes he wore yesterday, he was willing to let her win this battle.

“Looks like you’re about to get everything you dreamed of.” Kate materialized out of some side door and stood leaning against a wall. Only she could turn a casual slouch into a power stance. He wondered if the secret was all in the hips.

“Could you be a little more specific? I’ve dreamed about a lot of things. And that includes a machine that lets you view other people’s dreams, so maybe we’ve shared that one.”

He tried to slide past her, but she just stepped in the way. Stiles was so not in the mood for games at the moment. 

“Now, with those big brown doe eyes it’s no wonder you’ve got everyone eating out of the palm of your hand. But just know that those looks can only get you so far, kid. Just remember though,” her smirk turned downright predatory, “you don’t get to play in the big leagues until you hold a lot more cards.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “And my hand, even if it sleeps all day in that tower, is a real doozy.”

Stiles froze. What did she just say? He glared at her with everything he had, but she only chuckled and walked off in a different direction, impervious to the glare he shot at her back. 

She couldn’t resist one more parting shot. “Good luck finding your arsonist, kid.”

“Not an arsonist,” he called after her, “a murderer.” She paused midstep. “Arson is what happens to property,” he said forcefully.

He didn’t even watch her go. He immediately spun on his heel and went back the way he came. Nothing concrete was said, but Kate’s fairly heavy-handed threats were clearly aimed at his father. King John had been virtually kept in a state of sleep in the north tower. If she had any part in that, he didn’t want her finding out that he and Deaton had been up there that morning. He didn’t want her finding out that Stiles was trying to wake him up.

Dinner with the queen be damned. He had to get up to the medical wing right now.

Of course, right after the weird faceoff with his crazy girlfriend was when he suddenly ran into Derek.

. . .

Derek had been looking forward to dinner when Stiles practically smacked right into him. Really, it could have been a scene out of the rom coms Cora secretly loved. Just as he was emerging out of a hallway, Stiles was turning a corner, and—bam—he was suddenly trying to keep Stiles from dropping straight to the floor.

“Whoa, easy there,” Derek said jokingly. But when he finally caught sight of Stiles’s pale expression, he pivoted to, “Is everything okay?”

Stiles let out a strangled laugh. “Sure. Why not. I only just had a very shocking and awful realization about the fire, and I need to go check on something.”

Stiles was obviously being cagey about something, and he wondered if it had to do with Cora announcing that his mother would be attending dinner. “Why don’t we go to dinner first? I’m sure once you’ve got a full meal, maybe even a full night’s rest, we’ll be able to tackle it better.”

Stiles, who seemed like he was about to bolt, suddenly stopped and gaped at Derek. “Wait, what?”

Derek shrugged. “There’s still plenty of time. A brain works better on a full stomach.”

“No, not that,” Stiles said, batting a hand through the air. “You said a full night’s rest.”

Derek was perplexed by Stiles’s confusion. “Well, yeah. When you move back here, we’ll be able to devote real time to it.”

Stiles’s mouth opened and closed several times. He actually kind of looked like a fish pulled out of the water. “Derek, I’m leaving after this. As soon as I can, I’m returning to the McCalls.”

Now it was Derek’s turn to gape like a fish. “But you were so good in your interview. The people of Beacon love you.”

“But I have a home.”

Derek felt like his brain was going through a blizzard. It just did not compute. Stiles was _already_ home. The palace was his home before this random family. This was where Stiles belonged; it was so obvious to Derek. Why didn’t Stiles see that?

“So you’re just going to abandon your responsibilities here?” Derek asked. “What about everything that’s been waiting eight years for you?”

Suddenly Stiles’s expression went dark. “Don’t you dare put that on me,” he said, pushing into Derek’s space. “I have a life in Beacon Hills. I have friends and a family who I miss so much that it hurts. You don’t see them, so of course they don’t exist or are not as important.”

That’s not what Derek was saying, and he could feel himself getting frustrated. Is that all Stiles thought of him? “And don’t you see all the important things you could do here?” Derek demanded. “Don’t you see how much it would mean to the people here?”

“What do we even mean to each other?” Stiles shouted. His voice reverberated off the walls.

Derek just stood there stunned, brain not yet caught up to what was said. He’d been so happy only a few short moments ago. Where had he gone wrong?

It took several long moments of him spluttering and swaying on the spot before he realized that Stiles had expected an answer. And then it was too late.

“That’s what I thought,” Stiles said quietly. He sounded almost defeated. “Now if you would excuse me, _Your Highness_ ,” that felt like a punch to Derek’s gut, “I really do have to go do something. Please extend my apologies to everyone.”

And then Stiles was gone. Leaving Derek standing in the middle of the hallway stunned. And so very, very alone.

. . .

Derek was fuming. He was storming through the halls, not sure where he was going. He couldn’t go to dinner like this. In fact, the whole event had lost its appeal to him after he and Stiles had their fight. He didn’t feel guilty like he did when he yelled at him about Kate the day before. He didn’t feel shocked like he did after he’d argued with Kate during the interview. 

It had been a little over a day since he’d met Stiles. He’d been charmed by him. Annoyed by him. Impressed by him. They’d shared some really emotionally heavy stuff together. Derek had talked about his father, which he never did with anyone but Cora. He’d been so sure that Stiles had fit in so well. He was sure he was planning to stay. Until he wasn’t.

Mostly Derek felt a little forlorn. Maybe he should just call it a night and hide out in his room.

But he didn’t get the peace and quiet he craved. Instead he encountered Erica and Boyd. They look flustered.

“Derek, thank god,” Erica said. “Please tell me you know where Stiles is.”

Derek’s thoughts briefly turned dark. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“No, you don’t understand. Show it to him.” She gestured to Boyd, who handed over a folder with papers inside.

“What is this?” Derek asked as he flipped through the papers. It looked like some medical and scientific jargon. He wasn’t sure why they thought he would be interested in this. It looked like stuff more up Lydia’s alley. 

“It’s the rest of the information Stiles had his friend look up,” Erica said. “At first, we were kind of confused why. I mean, I get why he might be curious, but still, it wouldn’t exactly be my first question, you know?” Too much information without actually explaining anything. Derek thought his eyes were about to cross.

“It has to do with the former king consort,” Boyd interrupted. “It looks bad.”

Derek started reading. At first, most of it seemed unrelated to anything, but as he kept going he started to unravel exactly what Stiles’s friend had found.

It had started with a simple query: Stiles wanted to double check the medical credentials of King John’s caretakers. The people who saw to his day-to-day care, who fed him, who made sure his body was exercised, who checked his vitals, who gave him his medication. Derek was surprised to read that, over the last eight years, not a single one of them were a licensed medical professional. They had instead been hired as “caretaking aids.”

But that wasn’t the most shocking piece of information there. Apparently Stiles’s friend was thorough, because he found that _Dr._ Harris himself didn’t even have a medical degree. He had a PhD in biochemistry, although he never worked in the field. Derek didn’t understand. How did the man become in charge of the long-term care of such a high-profile patient? He would have needed a strong recommendation, and even with that, his expedited hiring somehow got him past any background screenings that would have picked up the fact that he was clearly _not_ a doctor. That would have required direct interference from someone in one of the royal families.

“I suggest you look at the last page,” Boyd said. 

Derek flipped to the back, and what he read there had his heartbeat skittering wildly.

It was the subject of Harris’s dissertation for his PhD: it focused on the properties of a flammable chemical compound, one that was virtually undetectable after the flame was extinguished.

Derek stood there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’d just read. Was this a coincidence? If so, it would be a crazy one. If this had happened to anyone else, Derek would have told them this was worth taking seriously. He needed to look into all of this.

He turned to the two people in front of him. “Erica, I want you to get Harris and detain him. It’s the weekend, so he won’t be at his post. Try his home first.” She stiffened and saluted. “Boyd,” he said, handing the folder back to him. “Take this to Peter or my mom, whoever you find first. Don’t talk to anyone else until you’ve found them. Now go! Both of you.”

Derek was barely aware of Erica and Boyd separating and running off to do what they’d been told. Derek was already turning a third direction, running as he went for the nearest staircase. 

Erica had asked him if he knew where Stiles was. He had a hunch. If Stiles had specifically asked his friend to look into the medical staff’s backgrounds, that meant he already had strong suspicions. 

Derek couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his gut. Something told him he had to get to Stiles right away.

. . .

For the fourth time in less than twenty-four hours Stiles found himself up in the tower that housed the medical wing.

Once again, he encountered nobody on his way up. It made him wonder what kind of security they had in this joint.

And then he thought about his father sitting up there year after year. Kept placid by his medication. Forgotten by everyone else. It made him want to puke.

Stiles opened the door to King John’s room and slipped inside. The former king consort was now sitting in his wheelchair facing the window. He didn’t move as Stiles approached.

Stiles knelt down next to him and looked for signs of life. Deaton had disrupted the medication only that morning. He didn’t know what he expected to happen, but he certainly didn’t expect much at all.

And he certainly didn’t expect the man to look him straight in the eyes.

Stiles’s breath caught in his throat. The man’s pale blue eyes had some measure of clarity in them. He couldn’t see Stiles himself, could he? It must have been Stiles’s imagination that his gaze changed to one of recognition. Yet, Stiles couldn’t help but reach out for the man. He opened his mouth, ready to ask if he knew who he was.

Then, with a shaking, uncoordinated arm, John took Stiles’s hand in his and said, “Claudia.” It was barely a whisper, said through a rough throat unused to speaking.

Tears filled Stiles’s eyes. He didn’t have it in his heart to correct him.

The warm fingers holding his tightened their grip. “Claudia, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Stiles asked. He didn’t know where John thought he was right now, but he didn’t want to shatter his bubble just yet.

“I didn’t want to leave you. I had to make sure our son is safe. I’m coming for you.”

John seemed to be getting agitated. The grip holding his hand was stronger than he would have thought, almost to the point of painful. “It’s okay,” Stiles said, hoping to soothe him some.

“Please stay here, Stiles!” the man cried, and Stiles gasped, shocked at hearing his own name come out of his lips. “I’m going back for your mother, but I need you to stay safe!”

Suddenly, Stiles saw a flash of fire and felt suffocating heat surrounding him. With a pained cry, he wrenched himself from the man’s hold, jerking back so fast that he tipped over and fell on his backside.

Stiles sat on the floor, pulling in gasping breaths, inside the dark interior of John’s hospital room.

His father was still reliving the fire. He was still stuck in that awful night eight years ago. They had both been in the thick of it the night of the fire. And his cries had sparked a deeply buried memory inside Stiles. Some fragment of that night was coming back to him, so maybe he’d remember something important.

That was all the incentive Stiles needed to get off his ass. Breathing through the memories of choking smoke, Stiles scrambled to his feet and kicked up the parking brake on John’s wheelchair. “I’m getting you out of here now,” Stiles told him as he steered him toward the door. Hospital protocols be damned. He wasn’t leaving his father up here another second.

He wheeled John through the medical wing’s double doors. The man had quietened down, likely lost still in his usual dream state.

Stiles knew there was one major obstacle, though. He’d taken many, many sets of stairs to get up this tower. And Derek had said the only elevator required a special key.

Praying that Harris at least kept a spare elevator key in case of emergencies, Stiles immediately wheeled them both around, parked John next to the front desk he’d seen Harris behind the night before, and started rifling through his stuff. It had to be somewhere. He needed it. Stiles highly doubted that John was in any fit state to walk down multiple flights of stairs, and he certainly wasn’t strong enough to carry him far.

Stiles dug through filing cabinets and desk drawers. He even dragged a finger through the dirt of a potted plant on the desk, hoping to find a hiding spot. “Come on, key,” he mumbled to himself. “Where are you hiding?”

“Maybe it’s right here.”

Stiles startled at the female voice, just in time to see the bottom of the desk phone swinging straight toward his head.

There was a crack as it connected. Then Stiles went down like a ton of bricks.

Stiles must have lost a few seconds, because the next thing he knew he was on his back, his head hurt, and the harsh high-frequency beeps of a phone off the hook didn’t help.

The light shifted above him, and for a second he was back to the night of the fire. _He heard his father’s voice begging Stiles to stay put, that he had to go in after Claudia. The courtyard he’d deposited him faced the woods._

_He had run after that. Skirting the edge of the fire. Looking for any sign that his parents were going to come out together. With practiced ease, he climbed a stone wall to get a higher angle. The flames in front of him only grew._

On the floor of the hospital, Stiles groaned and tried to roll over, but a heavy weight landed on his hips, pinning him in place.

_His head had been hit hard. Waves of warm liquid spilled from his temple. Wait, when had that happened? There was too much. Even to his young mind, he knew it was too much blood._

_He stumbled away from the fire. Away from the smoke and pain. The only peace from the roar of the flames came from the darkness of the forest skirting the courtyard. Stiles stumbled forward. But it was too much blood. Dizzy, he collapsed._

Stiles tried to move uncooperative limbs. Why was that annoying phone still beeping?

_“They’re going to wonder what happened to him,” a voice said. “If the queen dies, the country will need him.”_

_“If the queen dies, her murderer will see him as an obstacle. We don’t know who to trust.”_

_“Then what do you suggest?”_

_“I know a family. A woman who lives close by in Beacon Hills. She has a son of her own.”_

The weight on top of him shifted, and with a sharp sound, the beeping phone suddenly cut off. A strong grip grabbed his weakly flailing arms.

_From his perch on the wall, Stiles had tried to look for any signs of his parents, but the flames were too bright, and the smoke was too dense._

_The wall met a balcony overlooking the forest. There he saw a confident figure strut out of the flaming palace. Stiles ran along the wall, picking his way along a steep edge and a sizeable drop. But when he got close enough, he realized the figure wasn’t either of his parents._

_Wavy blonde hair. A cold smirk. The young woman saw him on the wall. She strode forward, boot heels clacking against the soot-covered balcony. She leaned forward as if to tell him something._

_Then she pushed him straight off the edge._

Kate Argent.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189357822@N05/50268839901/in/photostream/)

With a wet gasp, Stiles finally pulled himself out of the rapidly returning memories. His head hurt. The warm trickle down his face probably meant he was bleeding.

A pained groan escaped his lips, and he opened his eyes to see his attacker leaning over him. There was a harsh tug on his arms as the final knot was pulled tight, binding his wrists with a phone cable yanked straight out of the wall.

Stiles glared up with hate-filled eyes at the woman who’d torn apart his family.

Kate Argent only cocked her head playfully and said, “Aw, sweetie, you don’t look so good.”

“What are you doing?” Stiles slurred. 

Kate merely chuckled as she stood up then hauled him to his feet. Stiles swayed but was prevented from falling back to the floor by Kate’s arms wrapped around his middle. Oh man. Dizziness and slurred speech were sure signs of concussion. He’d already had a severe enough head injury to forget the first ten years of his life. With his luck this one would lead to an aneurysm. 

Kate, using her leverage under his armpits, began to drag him back through the hospital wing. “What are you doing?” he asked again.

“Hush, sweetie,” she said, still dragging him backwards. Stiles craned his head around to see they were going toward King John’s room. “It’ll all be over soon. I’m sure the official story will be that poor Prince Mieczysław became unstable at the sight of his decrepit father. All that public pressure. Finding his family destroyed. A young life cut short. It was such a tragedy he felt the need to jump.”

“ _What_?” Stiles tried to wiggle out of her grip, get his uncooperating feet under him—anything—but the woman was surprisingly strong. “You shouldn’t do this,” he said, trying to think fast. “I don’t know if you know this, but CSI is more than just a TV show. Even if you remove _this_ from the scene of the crime,” he said, gesturing to the phone cord wrapped around his wrists, “they’re going to know there was foul play.”

“No worries,” Kate said as she struggled pushing open the hospital room door with one shoulder while keeping her grip on Stiles as he squirmed for his life. “It’ll be so easy to implicate the Hales with that same evidence. Between rumors of that slimy fop harassing your little commoner family and a crown princess whose succession suddenly became a big fat question mark after you arrived on the scene, with the right story in the right ear it’s a short step between the cover-up of a teenage boy’s murder and a family drunk with power and desperate to keep it.”

“You mean the power you plan to take for yourself,” Stiles accused.

Kate paused long enough to flash him a grin. “Naturally. Hair that looks this good was born to hold a crown.”

“Kate, stop.” A broad shadow emerged in the hallway.

“Derek,” Stiles breathed. He slumped with relief in Kate’s arms. “It was her,” he said, louder. “She started the fire eight years ago, and she—” He cut off with a pained grunt as Kate yanked on his hair. 

“Derek, don’t worry, honey,” Kate said, laying on the charm. “My plan includes you. If all goes well, we’ll be king and queen of Beacon by the end of next week.”

Derek’s mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “This isn’t going to get you what you want,” he said carefully, like he was trying not to spook a skittish horse. “Laura’s the crown princess. She’s going to be the next queen with Parrish.”

Kate’s resounding scoff practically tickled Stiles’s ear. “Any mongrels she bears with that piece of dry toast will be half commoner. Derek, don’t you see? After I destroy your mother’s and sister’s reputations, if we get married, we will have the strongest claim with the strongest line.”

“Kate, what you’re talking about is murder,” Derek said with a small hitch in his voice. And for once Stiles felt sorry that Derek had to find out his girlfriend was this awful person. “You should know I would never turn against my family.”

For a tense moment, they stood in silence. Stiles couldn’t see Kate’s face behind him, but Derek’s was so broken. He silently pleaded with round eyes to stop what she was doing.

“If you really feel that way,” Kate said, as Stiles heard her fiddle with something by her hip, “then I guess there’s no use for you anymore.”

A loud gunshot set Stiles’s ears ringing. His heart skittered, sure he must have been shot, but then he spotted the smoking barrel of the pistol pointed over his head and followed its line of sight.

Derek had hit the ground without so much as a grunt.

A broken wail tore from Stiles’s throat.

He felt himself starting to be dragged backwards once again, and with a frustrated shout he renewed his struggles. Derek was shot. He had to see where he was hit. Stiles refused to assume anything until he could see where he’d been hit.

Kate was deceptively strong, but between trying to holster her gun and hauling Stiles’s uncooperative dead weight, Stiles was able to make a flinging elbow ram hard into her gut, causing Kate to drop both him and the gun as she struggled to suck in a breath.

Stiles made a mad dash with both hands to reach for the gun, but Kate recovered quickly and slid him back before sitting her full weight on him to hold him down.

Stiles fought as she tried to control him once again, managing to twist onto his back in the process. “Why don’t you hold still, you little pipsqueak,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You shot him,” Stiles accused. “He actually cared for you, and you shot him!”

“Oh sweetie,” Kate said in a syrupy tone that implied _he_ was the stupid one. “I admit it was a waste of those completely lickable abs. But it wasn’t hard to get a do-goody puppy like Derek stuck on me.” She was practically leering now. “A shy smile. A little attention. Even flare up his anger every now and then to show him how out of control he is. Because, at the end of the day, Derek was just another slave to his baser instincts.”

Stiles practically snarled in rage. “No he isn’t!” he cried. He tried unsuccessfully to land a blow against her, but she was just playing with him now. “Derek is loyal and thoughtful and smart. Even when he loses his temper he tries to make amends and do better. I’ve known him less than two days, and I already know that Derek has more integrity than a murderer like you would give him credit for. Derek trusted you, and you squandered his feelings without a thought. If he gave me even half the care and attention you took from him, I’d count myself lucky.”

Kate’s leer turned patronizing. “Aw, it looks like the little prince has developed a crush. Sorry it had to end so tragically, though I’m sure that’ll be little comfort where you’re going.”

Stiles caught the movement out of the corner of his eye a split-second before Kate did. John stepped out of the shadows swinging his IV stand like a bat. He clocked Kate right in the jaw with the metal pole, and her limp body fell on top of Stiles. 

Stiles tried to wiggle himself out from under the woman’s dead weight until a strong grip caught his forearms and helped him up. John held onto Stiles tightly as his wild, worried gaze searched him for injuries.

“Are you hurt, son? Any burns I should worry about?”

Stiles winced as the man pressed a questing finger over his head wound. “What? No, I’m okay. Please help me with this,” he said, thrusting his bound hands forward, knot side up.

Instead, John grabbed his shoulders. “I have to get you out. Then I’ll find your mother. But we have to move quickly before the fire spreads too far.”

The _fire_. Stiles felt like crying. He was still stuck in the night of the fire. John started pulling him toward the exit, but Stiles jerked back. “Wait, we have to check Derek first.” Derek was groaning on the floor—thank goodness he was alive. But Stiles could see blood pooling on the floor beside him.

“We have to move,” John cried, practically dragging Stiles toward the door. First a scary woman and now a man who’d been kept practically comatose for eight years. Stiles was starting to wonder if he needed to step up his strength workouts. Or, you know, start working out. 

“What about Derek? He’s bleeding.” And, when that didn’t seem to slow John down, he knew he had to bring out the harsh truth.

“Please look at me,” Stiles cried out, trying to hold John still. “Look at me,” he repeated, meeting the man’s gaze. John froze under the intense eye contact. Good. Maybe he could hear him.

“There is no fire,” Stiles said slowly. “That was eight years ago. Can’t you see I’m older now?”

Slowly, John’s gaze started to focus and become a little more clear. “Stiles?” he asked. Of course, he probably had a hard time recognizing the teenager in front of him.

Stiles held firm, though. “You did what you could, but the fire is over. It has been for years.”

Stiles could see the exact moment when John started to remember. His expression broke. “I didn’t save her. Claudia is gone.” Tears started to flow freely down his face. “My son.”

Stiles felt himself pulled forward once again, but this time into a bone-crunching hug. John broke down on his knees, arms wrapped around Stiles’s waist, and started sobbing, his face buried in Stiles’s abdomen. “Oh my son. My boy. I’m so sorry I left you. I went looking for your mother, but I was too late. And then you were gone. No matter what I did, I ended up losing you both.”

Stiles stood there as John cried against him. He felt tears fill his own eyes. Eight years his father had been kept in this mental and physical limbo. Unable to let go of the worst night of his life. Unable to forgive himself. Eight years Stiles had lived isolated from his entire identity. Separated from his only surviving relative. Eight years they were kept apart when they could have been together. Trying to pick up the broken pieces. Maybe they wouldn’t have been so broken now.

Stiles gently rested his hands on his father’s shaking shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. You haven’t lost me completely, Dad.” 

Dad. The word sounded so foreign on his lips, but it felt right in his heart. For eight long years he hadn’t remembered his father. During that time, “Dad” made him think of cheesy movies that only reminded him of that specific hole in his life. During that time, “Dad” was Scott wrinkling his nose at the scent of whiskey no matter who was drinking it. “Dad” was always just a hypothetical to Stiles. One that he never thought he would ever find for himself.

He rubbed soft circles on his dad’s back, a soothing method Melissa had used on him years ago at the height of his panic attacks. “It’s going to be okay, Dad,” he repeated. “We’ll get out of here together, but first we have to get Derek.”

His dad was lucid enough to agree, and then Stiles scrambled to kneel by Derek’s side. “God, Derek, please be okay.”

Blood was seeping through Derek’s fingers pressed tightly against his upper arm. The grin he shot Stiles was pained. “I’ll live,” he grunted.

. . .

For Stiles, the next several hours passed in a mind-numbing blur. 

The cavalry arrived at the hospital wing quick enough that Stiles didn’t have to figure out how to help both an injured Derek and his still not-quite-with-it father down the many flights of stairs. From that point on, there were people surrounding them, scrambling under Peter’s barked orders. 

Derek had been whisked off to get his bullet wound treated. Stiles didn’t know if it was ironic or tragic, but he couldn’t leave the medical wing right away for that very reason. They just moved him to one of the empty rooms, saying they had to dislodge the thing. Cora, brows furrowed in worry, insisted she wanted to go in with her brother.

Kate’s unconscious body was collected by several palace guards, who carried her away. She would await investigation and trial along with Harris. 

John had at first refused to leave Stiles’s side, and the more people surrounded him, the more he seemed to revert to reliving the night of the fire, unable to walk away from who he perceived to be his adolescent son. Stiles didn’t like seeing him so riled up, but he refused to let anyone sedate him. His dad had spent too many years of his life asleep. However, thanks to some close contact and gentle words, Stiles was able to calm him down and try to anchor him to the present long enough for him to trust a calm and cool Lydia to lead him away to be looked at.

With those three taken care of, Stiles was left to sit with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders—Erica had insisted on it because she’d seen it in a movie once. He mechanically gave his statement, allowed them to look at the bump on his head, and just let the entire night wash over him. He felt tapped out. Spent.

It wasn’t until he’d been relocated to the room he’d spent the night in—still wrapped in that same blanket—when he finally found himself alone, no longer surrounded by scurrying people. 

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed staring at nothing in particular when there was a gentle knock on the door.

This time Stiles knew there were guards stationed outside his door—Peter had insisted on it. When he heard the door open and close behind him, he figured they had given whoever it was the go-ahead. 

“I thought you might still be up.” It was Derek, now dressed in a soft T-shirt and wounded arm cradled in a sling.

Without answering, Stiles patted the space beside him and waited for Derek to seat himself next to him on the bed. Seated side by side, their shoulders and knees lined up and connected them. The barest whisper of a touch. 

They sat in silence for several minutes until Stiles, always true to form, had to say something. “So did everything go okay? With your arm, I mean. It’s not going to fall off or anything, will it?”

Derek let out a soft chuckle. “I can officially testify that having a bullet dug out of your arm is awful. But no, my arm won’t fall off. I’ll heal.”

“That’s good.” God, he felt so stilted. Stiles lifted his eyes to the ceiling and prayed that he would regain the ability to string multiple sentences together. 

Stiles took in a deep breath for courage and just pushed the words out: “I’m sorry,” but Derek had said, “I’m sorry,” at the same time. They blinked at each other in surprise.

Stiles jumped in first. “No, dude. I’m so sorry you got shot trying to help me. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, his expression earnest, “I’m sorry. My girlfriend did all those awful things. I should have known.” When Stiles opened his mouth to protest how could he have possibly known, Derek went on to say, “Even so, I shouldn’t have fought with you earlier. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had to be alone up there. Once again I let my temper get the best of me, and you’re the one who suffered.” He looked so upset.

Silently, Stiles reached up to poke one finger at the deepest wrinkle in Derek’s furrowed brow, causing both eyebrows to immediately shoot up in surprise. “Yeah, yelling isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, and it’s big of you to recognize that. But I think you also severely underestimate how abrasive I can be too. As for the fight, I think we’re both partly to blame.”

Derek hummed thoughtfully.

“As for the rest, I wasn’t alone when it counted the most. And I want to thank you for saving my life.”

Derek’s face was blushing a deep red, but Stiles could swear he saw the corner of his lips curl upwards. “You saved my life too.”

They fell once more into companionable silence. This time, it was Derek who broke it. “When we were fighting, you asked me what we were to each other. And then, with Kate, you said all those things. . . .” 

Stiles didn’t answer; he could feel his own flush creeping up his face. Those were things he’d yelled in the heat of the moment. He just hadn’t intended to fling out so much of his feelings. Especially the stuff he’d realized he felt about Derek.

Derek continued. “I know I’m not an easy person. I could probably count on one hand the number of people I easily interact with. I like my routine, and I like to know what’s coming in advance. But I guess no one could have seen _you_ coming.” He trailed off with a soft chuckle.

“I thought I liked Kate because she was safe, but now I know it’s because it was easy. And she was familiar.” He sighed. “But looking back, I didn’t like myself when I was with her. I always felt like I’d let her down somehow, and I couldn’t figure out why. It actually took meeting someone who took me out of my comfort zone to reexamine my routine.”

Slowly, gently, like he wasn’t sure Stiles would let him, Derek reached out and took hold of Stiles’s hand. “You fascinate me, Stiles. You’re fiercely loyal and protect the ones you love. You unapologetically own your interests and your demeanor. You’re fun to be with, funny to listen to, and so, so smart.”

Stiles looked sharply at Derek, heart pounding in his ears. Derek was staring at their intertwined hands, a soft smile pulling the corner of his lips.

“But it wasn’t until we sat on that balcony last night and you listened to me talk about my father that I knew. That time, and this right here. This is safety; this is peace. I feel something fit naturally into place when I’m with you.”

The noise in Stiles’s ears was a dull roar. Did Derek just say all that? About him? Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? He and Derek only knew each other for a short amount of time, and something about all of this felt right. But at the same time, there were still a few things to sort out.

He thought over his response carefully. “I care about you, Derek. A lot. This has hit us so hard and fast, though. There are so many feelings we both need to parse through. You just had what has got to be the worst breakup ever.” Derek released a pained snort. “And I’m still trying to grasp exactly who I am now.”

Derek nodded. He didn’t look hurt. “I know what you mean. Can we just take it one day at a time? You should take your time figuring out what you want, but I know that I want to see you again. I want to get to know you better.”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand. “I’d like that.” Then he leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips against Derek’s. The kiss was warm and sweet, and it held the promise that they would have more to come.

. . .

Stiles was definitely going to have an aneurysm. 

He and Derek had decided that neither of them wanted to be alone after the night they’d had, so Derek stayed. They sat on that bed talking into the early hours of the morning. Getting to know each other better. Sharing their pasts. Discussing their dreams for the future. Eventually they both passed out, side by side, too exhausted to keep going.

That was, until Stiles had the worst scare of his life when he woke up to birds chirping and Peter freaking Hale standing over the bed with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Peter slowly dragged his gaze from where their limbs were entangled on the bed—fully clothed, Stiles felt should be put on the record—to announce that he was finally returning Stiles’s phone and that both he and Derek were expected to report to a specific parlor for breakfast. Then he tossed the device to Stiles and exited the room chuckling to himself. The creepy asshole.

Stiles’s phone was a wreck of missed calls and text messages. Most of them were worried messages from Scott, Danny, and Melissa; several were check-ins from various school friends; and there were over a dozen from unknown numbers. If that Matt person had also leaked his number to the press, he was going to have to get a new one.

Then, Derek had dropped the bombshell about the parlor Peter had so smugly announced. Apparently not only was it in the Hale wing of the palace, but it was the favorite breakfast location of the queen herself. Peter telling them to go there meant Stiles was going to meet Queen Talia face to face. Even with his clothes stale and rumpled, after he’d had the most emotionally charged two days of his life, and he was now sort of dating her only son.

Stiles was definitely about to have an aneurysm. 

Derek’s gentle reminders that Stiles would be fine weren’t helping his nerves at all. Well okay, maybe they helped a bit, especially when Derek’s warm hand stayed wrapped around his own as he led him through the halls. His own small anchor of comfort. 

When they made it to the set of double doors, Derek let him pause to take a breath as he gathered his fortitude. Just because she was the queen of the whole freaking country—and Derek’s mom—didn’t mean she wasn’t just a normal person, right? That’s the lesson he kept learning over and over since coming here. Like with Derek and the palace teens.

Stiles only got a brief glimpse into the room beyond before someone shot out so quickly that he nearly fell over from the force of the bone-crushing hug. 

“Dude! We were so worried about you.”

Stiles melted into the familiar embrace. “I missed you too, Scotty.” No matter what had happened in the last two days, Scott was his brother and being with him felt like home.

Stiles and Scott didn’t let go of each other until gentle hands patted their shoulders. “Come on, Scott. You don’t want to smother him.” 

Melissa greeted him with a watery smile. She rested a cool hand against his cheek, and he found himself leaning in to the touch. “Are you okay?” she asked seriously. 

Stiles nodded, warmed by her motherly concern as he let her examine his head wound with a nurse’s expert eye. 

“Mom was about to go mother bear on the whole palace,” Scott piped up.

“And if I don’t get some answers, I still might,” Melissa said darkly, eyeing the other people in the room. 

Aw crap. In his relief to see his family again, Stiles forgot the three of them weren’t alone. A quick scan of the parlor revealed Derek exchanging a few quiet words with his mother. Seated at the table was King John, who looked pale and tired, but his eyes were bright and more lucid than ever.

It was Queen Talia who spoke up. “Ms. McCall, let me begin by offering my heartfelt apologies for the past two days. We could have handled it better.”

“Handled it better?” Melissa interrupted. “My kid got hurt.”

“It’s not their fault,” Stiles said. “I went poking around like I always do, and while I didn’t _mean_ to confront a murderer by myself—”

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott breathed.

“—I ultimately don’t regret it because she was still hurting people.” He pushed himself between the royals and Melissa and shot her his most sincere look. “She needed to be stopped.”

“Oh Stiles,” Melissa said, features softening. “People talk about your big brain, but your heart is as big as it is stubborn.”

“Just like your mother’s,” said John. He pushed himself up from his chair, and for a heart-wrenching moment his legs wobbled. Stiles rushed to his side, and although the former king consort of Beacon regained the surprising strength he’d shown last night, he let Stiles wrap a supportive arm around his shoulders with a crooked smile.

“Claudia had a single-minded determination when it came to helping people,” he said. “It’s just one of the qualities you inherited from her.”

Stiles felt his face flush, but he was happy all the same.

Then John turned to Melissa. “I’m still getting caught up on everything I missed, and it breaks my heart to know how much that truly is. But I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for keeping my son safe all these years.”

Melissa’s jaw dropped. “You mean—” She looked to Stiles, as if waiting for him to confirm it.

“Surprise,” Stiles said with tiny jazz hands. “This is my dad.” Then he said to John, “And I proudly present Melissa, who I consider a mom just as much as, well, Mom.” 

Melissa let out a quick, tearful sniff, which everyone politely ignored. She composed herself and shook hands with John and then Talia. Scott offered Derek a bro nod, but his eyes stayed wide as saucers over the whole situation.

“Let’s eat,” Talia said warmly. “You must have a lot of questions. Then I know John and I want to hear about what Stiles has been up to these last eight years.”

Stiles gulped. “Oh no. No stories please.”

Breakfast was wonderful, even if Stiles was uncomfortably the center of attention during most of it. Melissa and his dad exchanged stories from the two different halves of his childhood. Stiles couldn’t figure out which he found more embarrassing, the baby and toddler stories his dad had or the preteen shenanigans Melissa recounted (he wasn’t the most mature middle school student, okay). He was beet red when Scott had Derek roaring with laughter at one of his stories, but then Talia seemed to take pity on him and countered with something from Derek’s youth to level the playing field. Stiles decided then and there that Derek’s blush was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

Talia was simply awesome. She had Laura’s warmth, Cora’s directness, and Derek’s thoughtfulness. It turned out she had been best friends with Claudia; they had both practically grown up together in the palace and often hung out in their free time, even as adults.

Stiles paid extra attention when the conversation circled around to King John, though. Apparently he hadn’t grown up in the royal life. He’d worked as captain of the palace guard, and he’d met Claudia when she was still crown princess. The two of them falling in love had been easy, but there was some culture shock once she took over the throne. He continued his work leading the palace guard, though, and he’d even known Parrish as a young recruit.

Stiles lost himself in these tales of the past. Sure, he’d regained a few memories here and there, and given time he might remember more. But he couldn’t help but wonder at everything he’d missed. The palace halls could have been as familiar as his backyard. He’d been taken out of his home. He’d lost the life he had with his parents. And he’d never get the chance to really know his mother.

But he watched Melissa and Scott talking happily, then he briefly locked eyes with Derek, and he knew that ultimately he would never regret the last eight years he’d lived in Beacon Hills. Despite the tragedy that led to these events, he loved the time he spent in the McCall household.

Breakfast in Talia’s parlor had been private. Just the six of them together. Three families made one, with Stiles at the center. Afterwards, though, their little family group relocated to some sort of lounge room and grew to include most of the palace teens plus Peter, Laura, and Parrish. 

Everyone met Melissa and Scott, and hours later they were still mingling around the room, divided into smaller conversations and groups. 

Talia had been called away for business, but Melissa and Stiles’s dad were still engrossed in conversation with each other. Their heads were cocked toward each other like conspirators, and it warmed Stiles’s heart to think that his two sets of parents got along so well.

Scott had been heartily welcomed into the palace teens; even Jackson gave him a nod and asked after Danny. Once Scott got an eyeful of Allison and Isaac, though, a soft, mushy expression fell over his face. Stiles knew that look. Since then, the three of them had been huddled in their own little corner, probably admiring how pretty each of them was.

Stiles and Derek, though, had taken over a whole couch and just lounged quietly, watching their friends and family interact intermittently across the room. Stiles was starting to feel the last two nights with subpar sleep, so he couldn’t find it in him to care that he was starting to use Derek’s good shoulder to prop his head.

For the first time in two days, he didn’t talk, investigate, or think. He just lay there, basking in the warmth of Derek’s body slotted next to his, and for the first time in a while, he truly felt at peace.

That was, until Derek’s phone started buzzing incessantly. Moving stiffly so he wouldn’t completely dislodge Stiles, Derek checked his text messages. After a beat, he groaned.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, still not willing to lift his head.

Instead of answering, Derek just handed him the phone with a dramatic sigh. It was a series of text messages from Erica; they were filled with expletives and heart emojis in equal measure as she gushed to Derek why he hadn’t bothered to tell her. Curious, Stiles scrolled up until he found a photo she had forwarded from Cora.

It was a photo of him and Derek, lounging on that very same couch, leaning in to each other, looking utterly serene. 

Stiles didn’t see the brief smirks and soft smiles directed their way from across the room. He didn’t notice how Cora waggled her phone and nodded approvingly at her brother. He didn’t register as Parrish snaked an arm around Laura’s shoulders. And he certainly wasn’t aware of Scott, Allison, and Isaac leaning closer to each other or Melissa laughing at something his dad said.

Stiles just stared at that picture on Derek’s phone. Just the two of them looking so happy on that couch.

And he knew that no matter what, things were going to turn out okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! Thank you for reading to the end! Please tell me if you enjoyed. 
> 
> I want to take a moment and just be amazed that this fic got posted. I've been struggling with a lot of things this year, so I'm proud of myself for getting this done. It's been over 10 years since I've finished anything this long.
> 
> I have another 15-20K fic in the works, but after that, who knows? I have a couple other AUs floating around in my head.


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